


The Recruit

by Teland



Series: just where home is [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, First Time, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, POV Character of Color, Parent/Child Incest, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Religious Content, Rimming, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 59,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5383046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is smart. </p><p>Aramis is good to and with the horses.</p><p>Aramis is a bloody fantastic gunner. </p><p>Aramis is *obviously* at *least* promising in other ways, or Daddy wouldn't have taken him on. </p><p>Aramis is ready, willing, and able to swallow his pride and get help with whatever he *needs* help with. </p><p>On the other hand... </p><p>Aramis is a buggerer, and one very clearly willing to be less than politic about things. </p><p>Aramis is a bit of a ponce — or willing to play it that way. </p><p>Aramis plays *games* — at least sometimes. </p><p>Aramis — suspects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let the punishment fit the crime. For assorted definitions of 'punishment' and 'crime'.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts), [Outcastspice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outcastspice/gifts).



> Disclaimers: None of this is mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: If there's a spoiler in here, I'll be shocked. Meant to take place at an AU-ized point pre-series.
> 
> Author's Note: This is a direct sequel to [The Promotion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4266297/chapters/9658944). I never actually intended to write a sequel to that one, but, well, HERE'S ONE ANYWAY. This one will not make *any* sense without the other, so do read that one first. I even took it off lock to make it easier.
> 
> Additionally, there's that underage warning on here. It's there for a reason, don't get me wrong, but none of the characters are underage at the time of the story. See end notes for lightly spoilery explanation of the tag if there is ANY chance you might get triggered, please.
> 
> Acknowledgments: I don't make any stories without a *great* deal of help and support. Much love goes to Pixie, Spice, Melly, Houndstar, Greyandgold, and my Jack for love, hand-holding, incredibly helpful suggestions, typo-catching, feels explosions, sploosh, and all the other things that make writing not just possible, but fantastic. Thank you!

Porthos has one arm firmly round the neck of Hirondelle while Taureau does a sodding terrible job of living up to his namesake — he couldn't knock Porthos off his feet with a bloody plank with *that* form, and Porthos is really going to have to put some time into helping the man out with that — when *it* comes. 

The call. 

*The* call, from — and this is important — *Treville*, and very much *not* the Captain.

But, *because* the call is from Treville, it's even more important to 'pretend he hadn't heard it', to keep wrestling and fucking about with the other men — 

To keep being *just* this much of a *cheerful* bully-boy — 

A man's man — 

The 'best mate' of just — bloody everyone, and it's not that he *doesn't* like these men — love them!

It's just that — 

"Porthos. du Vallon. de Tréville. If you don't get your backside up here in ten bloody seconds, you will not *feel* the end of it until the Day of *Judgment*." 

It's just that Daddy — not Treville, and not the Captain — can damned well make that promise count. 

Porthos doesn't lick his lips. 

He *does* plaster on a scowl — giving Daddy his back for just a few more carefully-not-*too*-insubordinate seconds — 

"For fuck's *sake*," Taureau whispers in his reedy little voice — he'd been strangled by a shopkeeper as a lad for stealing and never fully healed for lower-volume speech — "what's the old bastard want this time?" 

"Same as always — my *hide*," Porthos says, keeping the scowl just *one* moment longer, and then standing straight — making sure to keep giving Daddy his back — 

His sweaty back — 

The pinkening-up back of his neck — 

The dust in his sweaty curls — he *knows* Daddy likes that — 

And, of course, his arse. 

"I still can't believe how *hard* he is on you!" 

Nor should you. But. Porthos shrugs it off — and shrugs off his scowl, too, replacing it with an easy grin. "Someone's got to take the punishment, eh?" 

Taureau and Hirondelle snort, and Hirondelle claps him on the back — "You're a better man than me, mate." 

Porthos laughs and shakes his head, keeping the easy look on his face for a step — 

Another — 

Another — 

And then he pulls a *hard* look on while the others can still see him — 

While they can still think to themselves all about that hard, hard man — 

About all the *punishment* his adopted son takes — 

No favoritism here. 

Certainly nothing that adopted son sodding *lives* —

"Porthos, wait a moment?"

For. That — is the new long-gunner.

Or... they *think* they'll make a long-gunner out of him, since he's already a dead-shot with *all* the guns, and only seems to be getting better, *and* he's one hell of a rider, and his name is something weird, something — 

Something not like everyone else — Aramis. "Aramis, I can't talk right now; I've just been summoned by the Captain." 

For some reason, that makes Aramis give him a shrewd look, a *searching* look — 

Exactly the kind of look that Porthos has to bloody well *avoid* for times like these. For — 

Every reason in the book. He shakes his head. "I can't keep him waiting, so —" 

"Even though he is your father?" 

Porthos rears back a little and frowns. "That's offensive," he says, and doesn't mind in the least that it comes out growled. 

Aramis *blinks* — and bows his head. "Please, forgive me, I meant only to tease *lightly*. All know that Captain Treville — and his only son — have a deep loathing for nepotism."

"Really." 

Aramis winces hard. "I have offended badly. I... please. If there is some way I can make amends, I would very much like you to tell me," he says, and the little bit of Spain in his accent is coming out more. 

He...

He's sincere, Porthos would wager, and more than a little mortified. 

"What did you want to talk to me about?" 

Aramis winces just a little more — and then smiles ruefully. "I... have heard much talk of you from the other men. Of your skill, your experience... and your open hand of friendship. I thought, perhaps, I might invite you out tonight to discuss how I could improve my training program. Or... whatever you'd like." 

And that was *also* sincere... but. 

But. 

Porthos had never made his living *primarily* from whoring, but it wasn't the sort of profession that suffered fools gladly. A little taught a lot, in Porthos's experience, and one of the things it taught was how to read...

That. 

The color high in Aramis's cheeks. 

The scents of *fresh* sweat. 

The *nervousness*, visible in the way Aramis is neither *quite* pacing nor quite standing still. He doesn't have a soldier's aplomb, yet — though, to be fair, all sorts of men never do for things like this. 

And... Porthos lets himself look, really *look*. 

That chestnut hair with gold hidden in the waves of it. That high brow. Those frankly elegant eyebrows. That nose and coloring that speak of some Moorish blood *somewhere* in his family's history, and that... everything else. 

The perfectly-kept moustache and beard. 

The mouth it's framing. 

The stillness falling over a frankly perfect body as Aramis figures out *precisely* what Porthos is doing — and very clearly puts some time into thinking about whether he likes how Porthos is doing it. 

Porthos raises an eyebrow. "Whatever I'd like...?" 

Aramis touches his pink tongue to his upper lip — and lets his eyes slip most of the way closed. "I am a great fan of... wide-ranging conversation, Porthos. I would like to have the opportunity to entertain you." 

"In a tavern?" 

"Or... we could go somewhere quieter..." 

"Like your rooms...?" 

Aramis smiles and steps just a little bit closer. "I have wine. Perhaps not enough, but... we could get more on the way there?"

And *that* — Porthos laughs helplessly. "You're bold as brass." 

"And you are not?" 

Porthos cocks his head to the side. "I'm the Captain's son." 

Aramis spreads his hands. "All men say that the Captain's son shovels shit for three days longer than the other men do for the same offense." 

Funny how few men notice how many of those punishment details involve being 'dressed down' in the Captain's office. "True enough, but —" 

"If you are confident enough to engage in this sort of flirtation, either his punishments are not so difficult for you —" 

Shit — 

"— which is something *no* man here would say, or you *like* those punishments —" 

"Aramis —" 

"— which is *also* something no man here would say — how they speak of the nobility and stoicism of your suffering!" 

"*Aramis* —" 

"*Or*..." And Aramis grins, wicked and... utterly shameless. He needs leathers. An utterly exclamatory hat — maybe with a bloody *peacock* feather. He needs *something* to set that off better than *training* clothes — 

"Or *what*?" 

"Or... there is no punishment to be had for The Captain's Son when — *when*, not if — he dares venture to the other side of the sheets." 

All right, fine, he can focus on that. Some-bloody-how that's the safe option. "And how *did* you decide that I did? Mm?" 

And Aramis's grin loses its wickedness, going back to something rueful and soft and young — how old *is* he? 

Porthos had forgotten to *ask* the Captain that question while he was curled up in bed with his *Daddy* speaking idly about the new recruits. There's an edge to — some of — Aramis's smiles that makes him look like he has at least five years on Porthos's eighteen-or-nineteen, while some of his other expressions make him look two or even *four* years younger. 

His body wouldn't let *that* be true — it's at least *close* to that of a full-grown man's through and through — but...

But Aramis isn't quite looking at Porthos anymore, and he can focus. 

"What is it —" 

"I showed you vulnerability, my honesty, much sooner than I had planned to do so, because I made a foolish and *stupid* mistake with my tease about your father. I did not guess you were a lover of men — and boys? — until you very bravely and pointedly and *tellingly* responded to my flirtation with flirtation of your *own*," Aramis says... to the air. 

"Right, well, that's *fair* —" 

"But you don't believe it? It's not enough? I thought, perhaps... it would be a start on the making of amends," Aramis says, and *then* looks at him — for a moment — before looking down. "I am doing this very badly. Almost certainly because I am trying to do — too many things at once." 

"Well, let's see. One, you're apologizing —" 

"Yes, and —" 

"And the apology is *accepted*, so bloody look *up*," Porthos says, deliberately using his Musketeer-voice, a little — 

Aramis inhales sharply and hops *to* — "Porthos —" 

"Two, you're inviting me out —" 

"I —" 

"And that's accepted, too, because I like you a lot —" 

"Oh — oh —" 

"Three, you're asking for help — or are you?" 

"I am! I — I do not have a great deal of martial *experience* —" 

"You're going to be the best gunner we have someday, and, going by reports, every horse in the stables loves you, which is, A, another reason for *me* to like you —" 

"I —" 

"And B, another bloody good sign for your future in the regiment. I already know you're a good rider." 

Aramis blinks. "You... discuss the regiment with your father." 

"Of course." 

The shrewd look is back, just that fast. "Perhaps you will take over for him —" 

Porthos crosses himself, forks the Evil Eye, spits, and makes a few more warding gestures for good measure. 

"Then... no?" And Aramis's amusement makes him look older again. 

"You know, the Captain actually enjoys his job. He does. He loves his men — every last one of us — and the regiment as a whole means the world to him. He was there to see it begin. He was there to *make* it begin. He will protect it — and us — like a bear with her *cubs*. And, like I said, he'll *enjoy* doing it. But then there's all the bowing and scraping, and the favours he has to do for this one or that one, or *bank* with that one and this one. And all the trips to the bloody *palaces*. All the *audiences* where he has to pretend to be a *courtier* and not a soldier. All the shite that lets *us* be here mucking about in the mud like kids with really *dangerous* toys. 

"*That* he doesn't love. And *that*? Would get me — and the rest of us — bloody murdered, because I can't get through a single *dinner* with Richelieu without the Captain all but sending me off to duck my head in a bloody horse trough so it doesn't catch *flame*." 

Aramis opens his mouth — and licks his lips. And *smiles*. "You are a passionate man." 

Porthos snorts. "And *we're* going out tonight. Assuming the Captain doesn't skin me alive for making him wait so bloody long —" 

Aramis colours again, eyes tracking fast as he looks down — but only for a moment before he looks right back up again. "I. Are we...?" 

Porthos grins and leans in, planting a hand against the wall over Aramis's head — 

Aramis makes a small noise — "Porthos..." 

"I tend to like getting to know a person a *bit* before we wander off to fuck." 

Aramis inhales sharply — "In truth, so do I —" 

"*Really*." 

He smiles wryly, ruefully, boyishly — "I was testing you." 

"Did I pass?" 

"Yes," he says, with utter seriousness, and — "There is an inn — more of an inn than a tavern — close to my rooms. It's a bit farther from the garrison than most of the popular taverns —

"I *think* I can hire you a horse for the night." 

"I don't — I usually walk — but. You cannot do that."

Porthos gestures ruefully. "In truth, I'm still not remotely used to being gentry, but I *have* learned the rules." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. And Porthos... lets himself, in a way he hasn't.

Just... hasn't.

He strokes the side of Aramis's right arm through his shirt with the tips of his fingers while *gripping* at the wall a little bit with his other hand. "You could wait for me in the teahouse by the hostler. When you're done with your training for the day." 

"So you *do* believe your father will forgive your tardiness," Aramis says, and smiles.

Shit — "Mayhap he's taught me how to bank favours." 

Aramis gives him a *curious* look for that — 

Porthos raises his eyebrows — 

And Aramis grins like a boy and shakes his head. "I would be most pleased to wait for you. But... am I truly letting you *pay*? Am I your mistress?" 

Would you like to be — no. Porthos steps back and starts walking backwards up the stairs. "You'll buy the — oceans of — wine, mate," Porthos says, and winks. 

Aramis looks him over — so *boldly* — and then inclines his head. "Very well, friend Porthos." 

Oh — mm. Porthos bows over the hat he's currently not wearing, makes about seven-eighths of a flourish, and then turns and *jogs* the rest of the way up the stairs and down the walk to the Captain's office. 

Treville's office.

Daddy's office. 

Daddy who's been waiting much, much, *much* — 

"Get your backside *in* here, Porthos!" 

— too long. 

Porthos opens the door, slips in — 

And Daddy uses Porthos's body to slam it shut — 

"Oh, *yeah* —" 

And shoves Porthos's head to the side — 

"Fuck, please —" 

And bites the join of Porthos's neck and shoulder *hard*. 

"*Please*!" 

Daddy growls in answer, bites harder — 

*Harder* — 

It feels like he'll break the *skin* — 

And Porthos is hard, just like that — 

Hard and needy —

Hard and *ready* — 

"God, fuck, Daddy, just give it to me, give me —" 

And Daddy growls more and *sucks* — 

Porthos *gasps* the way he always does for that first suck — 

That first *pull*, that — 

The way it makes Porthos *want* to be bleeding, *pulsing* deep into Daddy's mouth, flowing right into Daddy's *veins* — 

Porthos groans and *shakes* for it — 

And Daddy pulls back. "There you are." 

Porthos grunts a laugh and staggers on his feet a little. "Present and accounted for, sir. And sorry about —" 

"Shh. What kept you." 

Meaning Daddy needs to drive this encounter — *steer* it — a little harder than usual. 

So. 

Porthos *doesn't* start stripping, or drop to his knees, or do *anything* other than turn enough to look down into Daddy's eyes. 

Daddy's hot, wild — 

Fuck, *burning* eyes — 

"Answer, son. Don't keep me waiting." 

"No... Sir?" Because sometimes when Daddy needs to steer like this, he's not feeling as *much* like Daddy as he *is* like Sir —

But that's Daddy growling, Daddy pushing him hard against the door with one hand, Daddy *gripping* him through his trousers and squeezing so *hard* with the other —

Porthos shudders and spreads his legs — 

Tries to stay up and *stable* — 

Tries to — but Daddy always loves it when he loses it, when he just gives in and bucks and bucks — 

"That's more like it," Daddy says, growling under his breath and squeezing *harder* — 

"Yeah, Daddy, fuck, *yeah* —"

"It's what you want?" 

"*Please* —" 

"Your Daddy?" 

Porthos *bursts* out in fresh sweat — 

Daddy pushes his head to the side and bites him *again*, licks him, tastes him — 

Porthos moans and bucks *hard* — 

And Daddy pulls back. "Say it." 

"I want my Daddy," Porthos says — too much in a rush, not clear enough — "I want my Daddy!" 

Daddy pants — and growls again — 

And pulls back further and lets *go* — 

Porthos *slumps* against the door, knees shaking — 

Daddy looks him *over* again — 

"Daddy —" 

"Shh." 

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, because he knows the soldier in his Daddy *likes* that extra little show of obedience *always*. 

Daddy paces a little — 

Hums — 

"*Drop*." 

Porthos obeys at once, slipping down to his knees and resting his hands on his — 

"Hands behind your back." 

"Yes, Daddy —" 

"Answer me." 

"The new long-gunner, Daddy. He —" 

"The pretty one, son?" And Daddy raises an eyebrow. 

For a moment, Porthos thinks of raising *two* back — but. "Yes, Daddy. He... made sure I'd have to stay close for a little while." 

Daddy narrows his eyes. "Did he, now." 

"Yes, Daddy. I think he suspects — something." 

"About us, son?" 

"Yes, Daddy. He's obviously *smart* —" 

"Not just educated to a fault...?" 

"No, Daddy. He's got a brain in his head." 

Daddy nods slowly — 

Thoughtfully — 

And pulls on Treville, if not *quite* the Captain. "Son." 

"Yes, sir?" 

Daddy grunts and shivers — "Yes, that *is* necessary —" 

"But you bloody hate it, I know, I promise I'll be as quick —" 

"Does he need to go?" 

Shit. "Uh..." 

Up goes that eyebrow again. "A difficult question, son?" 

"You... uh. You've never asked it before, sir." 

The eyebrow goes higher. "You've never once come to me and said —" 

"That someone — suspected. I. Right. Uh. Yeah," Porthos says, and clutches his hands together behind his back, and lowers his head, and *thinks*, because that's what his Daddy needs him to do. 

Aramis is smart. 

Aramis is good to and with the horses.

Aramis is a bloody fantastic gunner. 

Aramis is *obviously* at *least* promising in other ways, or Daddy wouldn't have taken him on. 

Aramis is ready, willing, and able to swallow his pride and get help with whatever he *needs* help with. 

On the other hand... 

Aramis is a buggerer, and one very clearly willing to be less than politic about things. 

Aramis is a bit of a ponce — or willing to play it that way. 

Aramis plays *games* — at least sometimes. 

Aramis — suspects. 

Porthos searches himself for other yea or nay votes — 

Searches the *tactical* brain Daddy has tried to build in him — 

Searches his — 

("Am I your mistress?") 

Porthos winces and looks up. "Sir, I'm attracted to him." 

Daddy studies him for a moment, and it's *not* a long one, but it still makes Porthos sweat that much more. 

"Please —" 

"You feel he's compromised your ability to answer my question, son...?" And Daddy's voice is low and smooth and *dangerous* — 

Porthos *groans* —"No, sir — or." 

"Or?" 

"I — I — just don't know —" 

"What don't you know." 

"I don't know if he should go... yet." 

There's a *hotly* wry smile in Daddy's eyes. "You want to study him. Up close." 

Porthos blushes. "Yes, sir. I don't have to —" 

"No, you don't." 

"If... if you were to forbid me..." 

Daddy stops in his tracks. 

And *looks* at him. 

And — "Is that what you want, son...?" 

Porthos opens his mouth and — can't make any sound come out. Can't — 

He's too hard all of a sudden, too hot, too — 

His skin is too tight, too slick with sweat he needs his Daddy to *taste* — 

To tell him is *delicious* — 

Porthos hangs his head — 

And Daddy walks closer — 

Closer — 

And stops, right in front of Porthos. "Is that. What you want." 

And he can't — 

He can't bloody *think*, but — 

The point is always honesty, always — "I don't know, sir," he says, and fidgets on his knees — 

"Be still." 

He *stops* fidgeting — "I'm sorry, sir." 

"Shh," Daddy says, and pushes one hand into Porthos's curls, gripping tight the way that always makes Porthos — 

Breathe. 

He breathes. 

He — breathes. 

"Good boy." 

"Thank you —" 

"Shh. Breathe." 

He breathes. 

He breathes. 

He shivers and feels himself just — loosen, all over — 

"There's my boy. Keep breathing." 

Porthos obeys silently, and waits — 

"Do you know what you're asking for, son?" 

And that... was an actual question. Not just discipline. "I thought I did, Daddy, but now I'm not so sure." 

Daddy laughs softly and combs through Porthos's messy curls with his fingers. 

Porthos moans and pushes into it — 

"No, stay still." 

"Yes, Daddy. I'm sorry, Daddy." 

"You've nothing to apologize for. Including being... conflicted about the lovely Aramis, who was once Julián Ortiz." 

Porthos frowns. "Aramis suits him better, Daddy." 

"Agreed, son. He gave me his Christian name because he felt he had to as a point of honour, and, also as a point of honour, he gave me — some of — his reasons for rejecting it utterly. I cannot in good conscience share those reasons with you." 

"No, Daddy, I wouldn't —" 

"Shh. He is a scholar, son. He is, God help us all, an *ex-seminarian*." 

"Uh. A *what* now, Daddy?." 

Daddy laughs and strokes down to Porthos's carefully-barbered — right next to Daddy, every morning — cheek. "An ex-seminarian. He is just a *little* bit older than you at twenty-one —" 

"*Really*." 

"Yes, he *does* seem both much older and much younger at times. The only fencing he's done's in salons." 

"That's better than —" 

"You've seen him move. Can he defend himself if you take his weapons away?" 

Porthos opens his mouth — and then closes it and thinks about it. 

And — 

"Daddy, you won't *get* all of *that* one's weapons." 

Daddy makes an approving noise. "No?" 

"He's... obviously he's from somewhere near the border —" 

"He got most of his schooling in Épernay." 

"Oh. Hunh." 

Daddy laughs and strokes Porthos's mouth — 

Porthos kisses his thick, rough fingers. 

"You were thinking he was a city boy like you?" 

"I was, yeah, Daddy. I mean. He's..." Porthos frowns and works to put it into words. 

Daddy waits for him this time, stroking Porthos's cheeks again. Just — slow, like. 

Until Porthos has got it: "It's not that *every* country boy I've met has been a little slower — *not* stupider, just slower — in terms of how they talk and move and all that. It's just that the way he talks *and* the way he moves *and* the words he uses *and* the way he bloody flirts —" 

"Mm. I'd say he's been haunting Paris for at least a year. Perhaps a *little* more." 

"That's just the salon-time, though, yeah? I mean, he's got... sophistication. Or." Porthos frowns again. 

"No, son? You don't like that word?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "He got... flustered. A few times." 

"Did he, now." 

"Yeah. At first because he floated a little sally past me like maybe you'd go easy on my arse —" 

"Never." 

"Too *right*, but anyway —" 

"The nepotism concern?" 

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and looks up. "And also... uh. The flirting, a few times. Sometimes he was smooth and collected, and other times I could tell that I was knocking him off his feet a little. And he *said* that he was *deliberately* letting me see his soft underbelly, like —" 

"Hm." 

"— and I *do* believe him about that, but..." Porthos shrugs, careful to keep his arms locked behind his back. "I can see the country boy, is I guess what I'm saying. Or... the priest, I guess. Fuck. When did he *leave* the seminary? How close to a priest *is* he?" 

"*That* I can't tell you, son," Daddy says, and pushes his fingers into Porthos's beard — 

Grips and forces Porthos's head *up* — 

"Beautiful son." 

"Daddy. I'm yours." 

Daddy licks his lips. "Let's talk about what you asked for." 

"Yes, Daddy —" 

"If I forbid you to go drinking with Aramis tonight — and, yes, you *will* be fucking him well before the moon sets —" 

Porthos grunts — 

"— I'll be forbidding you pleasure." 

"Daddy —" 

"Shh." 

"Yes, Daddy. I'm sorry, Daddy." 

"Good boy. When do I forbid you pleasure, son?" 

"Never, Daddy. I mean — I mean, sometimes you *postpone* pleasure —" 

"But then I give it to you threefold. Don't I, son." 

"At *least*, Daddy!" 

Daddy grins. "So. You're not only asking me to do something I never do, you're asking me to do something quite *extreme*." 

Porthos winces. "I —" 

"Shh. You've not done wrong. Don't worry about that." 

"No, Daddy?" 

Daddy shakes his head and increases the *pull* on Porthos's beard, making Porthos tilt his head back more — 

Making swallowing so sodding *perfectly* difficult — 

So — 

Porthos *moans* — 

"My son..." 

"Yes — yes, Daddy —" 

"I think you're asking for discipline." 

"Always, Daddy —" 

"Specifically: I think you're asking for *punishment*." 

"I." And Porthos blinks and *thinks* about it — 

"That's right, son. Put some thought into this." 

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and thinks about how *hot* it had been to ask for Daddy to forbid him Aramis — 

How *strangling* it had felt in the best ways — like one of Daddy's hands on his throat and the other on his *bollocks*. 

And — Porthos blushes, because — 

"Yes, son?" 

"I — I want Aramis, Daddy," Porthos says, and looks right into Daddy's eyes. 

Daddy smiles down *into* his eyes. "That much is clear, son." 

"No, I — I mean —" 

"You want him more than any of the others these past two years...?" 

And Porthos thinks of Flea for the first time in — a while.

Thinks of the seemingly *countless* rows they'd had about him becoming a Musketeer — and how, in the end, it had really only been just the one row. 

Thinks about the fact that he'd not had even *one* row with Daddy about — about *any* of it, even when he'd showed up to the garrison so late and bitter and exhausted and *broken* that he hadn't been worth *anything* for training — 

And so Daddy had called him up to his office those days. 

Just — called him up, and they'd talked, or fucked, or done a lot more than that. 

Or a *lot* more, because the *first* time Porthos had wound up on his knees with his hands behind his back, for all of Daddy's dirty promises, was one of *those* days. And Porthos had also wound up blindfolded, and petted, and — 

And Daddy had told him stories about *his* life as a young Musketeer for two hours or two weeks or maybe two bloody *centuries*, Porthos will *never* be *entirely* sure, because at the end of it, Porthos could breathe, and not want to cry, and not want to punch anyone who didn't deserve it, and not want anything but to never leave his Daddy, God, please, his Daddy. 

Let him please his Daddy. 

Porthos swallows with difficulty and focuses on Daddy again — 

"Go on, son. Tell me." 

"I... I told him that I liked getting to know people I fucked." 

"Did he like that?" 

"Yes, Daddy." 

"And you liked *that*." 

"Yes, Daddy —" 

"And you felt just a little bit of a — pull," Daddy says, and tugs a little harder on Porthos's beard. 

Porthos grunts — "Yes — yes, Daddy —" 

"A part of you is already making love with that pretty, pretty man." 

"Daddy —" 

"Shh. Yes or no." 

And that — there's only one answer. "Yes, Daddy —"

"And you want to be punished for that." 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" 

"Because you're only supposed to give yourself like that to me?" 

"*Yes* — please — please, I belong to you —" 

"Shh —" 

"Daddy —" 

"Shh, son. You belong to me. You're always going to belong to me." 

"Yes —" 

"Shh. Say it." 

"'m always going to belong to you!"

"That's good, son. Now more clearly," Daddy says, and lets Porthos tilt his chin down a little to make it easier. 

"I'm always going to belong to you! I — I *chose* it and I'm never going to choose anything else!" 

Daddy colours a little, high on his cheeks — 

Pants — 

*Growls* — "Son..." 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

Daddy licks his lips. "I think I will punish you today." 

"Yes, Daddy, thank you, Daddy —" 

"Shh. But not denial. Denial's no good for a boy like you," Daddy says, and tugs Porthos's beard hard again. 

"Nnh — no, Daddy?" 

"No, son. You're too big, too bold, too generous and *giving*. Denial is meant to teach your boy — or your girl, I suppose — how to give when they have *not* been giving. When you deny someone, you wrap them up tight. You force them behind walls, into a gaol — even if it's only a gaol of the *mind*." 

Porthos considers that and... yeah. All right. 

"You see?" 

"Yes, Daddy, please, more." 

For a moment, Daddy's expression turns soft. "You've always liked to learn from your Daddy." 

"Yes, please — please —" 

"Shh. More: The idea of being denied Aramis excited you, because you thought of it as being a very specific kind of denial. The sort that involves you being tied in place, or even restrained. Correct?" 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"Restraints must be *opened* after a time, son." 

Porthos blinks — and then blinks more — 

And blushes *hard*. 

"I — I didn't think —" 

"I know." 

"I... a part of me was *anticipating* the — release." 

Daddy smiles softly again. "I know that, too. You would've taken Aramis like a starving wolf takes... well, perhaps not a rabbit." 

Porthos snorts. "Really *not*, Daddy." 

Daddy hums. "You smell it on him, don't you." 

"'It', Daddy?" 

"The killer *inside* the soldier we haven't actually *built*, yet." 

Porthos blinks *again* — "*Yes*, Daddy." 

"Mm. Good boy. That would be *much* of why *I* don't want to lose him." 

And that..."'Much', Daddy?" 

Daddy laughs hard. "We'll revisit that thought in just a bit. For now, let's talk about what an appropriate punishment is for a boy like you." 

"Oh — fuck. Yes, Daddy. I need —" 

"Shh. I know what you need. Don't I." 

Porthos grunts — and sweat rolls right down his spine and between his arsecheeks, tickling his suddenly *hungry* hole. "Yes, Daddy. You really do." 

"And you're going to let me tell you what that is. Aren't you." 

"Yes, Daddy. Please do." 

Daddy smiles *evilly* — 

Pulls *harder* and *harder* on Porthos's beard —

A few hairs let *go* — and then he releases it — 

Porthos gasps — 

"Keep that head *back*." 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" 

And Daddy stands straight and opens his belts. "The troublesome thing about generous boys like you, son, is that you give too *much*." 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"Too *profligately*. You don't know when to be *selfish* with yourself." 

"N-no, Daddy —" 

"You're not sure of that, son?" 

"I —" 

"Yes or no." 

"No, Daddy, I'm not sure!" 

Daddy smiles and opens his *trousers*. "Good boy. I'll teach you better. You know that, don't you?" 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"I'll teach you *how* and *when* to be selfish — and why it's *sometimes* a good idea." 

"Oh — fuck, Daddy. I mean — yes, Daddy!" 

"I'll teach you..." And Daddy sighs as he opens his *slick* breeches — 

As his thick, *hard* cock *pops* free — 

Porthos *moans* — 

Daddy strokes the slick all *over* his cock — 

Porthos moans *more* — 

"I'll teach you — open wide, son —" 

Porthos obeys — 

"— to save the best of yourself for the people who deserve it — i.e., precisely who I *tell* you to save it for," Daddy says, and growls as he *shoves* in — 

Porthos gulps and *swallows* — 

He's had *plenty* of practice — 

It never stops feeling *perfect* — 

"Oh, son... son..." 

Please please — 

"Work me." 

Porthos swallows and swallows, over and over and *over* again, while using his tongue like a whip, a lash — 

Daddy grunts once — 

Twice — 

Daddy growls and shoves *both* hands into Porthos's *ridiculously* sweaty hair — "Oh, *son*..." 

Fuck, *yes*, and he sodding *belongs* to Daddy, has since the very first *night*. He'd never *met* anyone who *could* put him on his knees like that, who could do it and still *ask* him for the *privilege* of it — 

And he hasn't met any others, since. 

He'd never met anyone so bloody hungry, and open, and passionate, and *wild* inside — 

He'd never met anyone who — needed him. 

*That's* not true, but he'd certainly never met anyone who'd needed him like *that*, who'd needed him and made it feel so good, so perfect, so dirty-hot-*perfect*. 

Daddy's had Porthos on his knees from the *beginning* — 

Daddy's taught Porthos what a *privilege* it could *be* to be on your knees — 

Daddy's taught Porthos one whole hell of a lot about how to be a *proper* pushy bloke, in terms of keeping *other* people on their knees... 

But it still comes back to this: Daddy's twitching, quivering cock in his mouth and throat. 

Daddy's cock just sitting there, taking up *space*. 

Daddy's cock opening him, making *room* for itself — not letting Porthos breathe, and, hell, yes, making Porthos grateful for every second he gets closer to passing out, because this — 

This salty-musky-sweaty-sweet *taste* — 

This *slow* drip of slick right down his throat — 

This *wait* for — 

"Are. Are you ready son?" 

— this. 

Porthos nods, and nods, and — 

And Daddy growls and pulls out hardly any ways at *all* — just barely enough for Porthos to get a *sip* of air — and then *slams* back in — 

Porthos groans in his chest — 

His own cock is *spasming* in his breeches — 

It feels like he's leaking like a *fountain* — 

It feels like he could — 

He could *spend* — 

And then Daddy *yanks* on Porthos's curls with one hand and his *beard* with the other and starts to *ream* him — 

Just sodding *ream* him — 

So perfect — 

So *perfect* — 

He keeps forgetting to *gasp* when he has a chance — 

He keeps forgetting not to writhe, not to twist, not to bounce on his knees like — 

Like the hungry, needy little whore he will *always* fucking *be* for his Daddy, oh, God, oh, *God*, just more, just — 

And Daddy fucks him faster — 

So much *faster* — 

Daddy isn't saying a word — 

Daddy is barely even *growling* — just one grunt after another as he shoves in with his big cock, as he — 

As he makes Porthos *his*, all *his* — 

He does it every sodding *time* — 

And Porthos will do everything, anything, *anything* to keep it, just keep it, just — 

Keep being this *lucky* — 

He can't stop *groaning* — 

And then Daddy *slams* in *hard* — 

Knocks the hand he has in Porthos's hair askew — 

Knocks Porthos's *head* back — 

He staggers on his feet — 

"*Son* — oh —" 

And he starts to spend, just like that —

Starts to fill Porthos's mouth and throat and fuck, Porthos is bucking at nothing, *thrusting* at nothing, he needs, he *needs* — 

Please — 

"Shh, son, shh... ah — fuck, you know I'll take care of you," Daddy says in a *shaking* voice as he pulls out just enough for the last few spurts to land on Porthos's tongue. 

Porthos sucks and mouths, swallows and laps and *mouths*, nods and lips and — 

Daddy growls and steps *back* — 

"*Please*!" 

"Shh, shh, up over the desk for me." 

"Oh, God, Daddy, I don't know if my *legs* work —" 

"They do for *me*. *Up*." 

And Porthos is moving before he can think, staggering like a drunk with a head injury — he makes it to the desk and bends, spreading his legs at the width Daddy likes. 

"There's my good boy..." 

And then he can breathe, he can *breathe* — "Thank you, Daddy —" 

"Shh, but we have to get your trousers and breeches out of the way..." And Daddy manages to growl a sigh.

He's the only man on the planet who can do that, too, Porthos is pretty sure. 

"You have no idea how many times I've wanted to *cut* you out of your beautiful leathers and leave you chained to my desk." 

"Oh, *fuck*, Daddy —" 

"Of course, then I wouldn't be able to watch you *hurt* people every day..." Another growled sigh, and Daddy reaches round him to undo his belts — 

And he sets them on the chair, not the empty part of the desk. He's got plans, then. And — "I could probably manage to strangle a few people *with* the chains before the jig was up, Daddy." 

"You say the sweetest things, son. You are the comfort of my sunset years," he says, and opens Porthos's trousers and breeches while Porthos laughs breathlessly — 

Half-mindlessly — 

"Feet together just a little bit — there you are," Daddy says, and shoves Porthos's trousers and breeches down to his *knees*. 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"*Now* spread for me." 

"Yes, Daddy — *unh* —" 

"I think your bollocks got bigger again, son," Daddy says, and squeezes them again.

Squeezes them *tight* —

So —

"*Please*!" 

"Mm. Your cock, now..." 

"Y-yes, Daddy?" 

Daddy presses close and peers over Porthos's shoulder. "No, doesn't appear to have grown, at all, in months," Daddy says, and sucks his teeth — 

"*Fuck* — I mean — I'm sorry —" 

"Shh. Your cock is just as magnificent as the rest of you. Massive and thick and hard for me... mm," Daddy says, and takes it in hand — 

"Oh — please —" 

"You know I just get greedy, son," Daddy says, and starts to stroke, slow and hard.

"I like it! I like *feeding* it!" 

Daddy growls. "I suppose you have given me one or two hints about *that* over the years..." 

Porthos laughs breathlessly. "I've definitely been trying hard, Daddy!" 

Daddy turns and kisses his cheek. "You know precisely how to communicate with your Daddy, son." 

"Yes, Daddy, yes —" 

"Shh. We still have to talk about your punishment." 

Porthos grunts and clenches and grunts more — "Yes, Daddy —" 

"We still have to get you *properly* squared-away. Now don't we," Daddy says, and starts tossing him *off*. 

"*Yes*, Daddy, *fuck* — *fuck* —" 

And Daddy squeezes his prick and bollocks again — 

Again — 

*Again* — 

"Daddy, *please*!" 

"Are you begging me to stop, son?" 

Porthos *coughs* a laugh — "When do I bloody ever do *that*?" 

Daddy snickers like a boy. "Very true, son, but today *is* a day of *firsts*," he says, and squeezes *viciously* hard — 

Porthos groans and *shakes* — 

*Sweats* — 

Daddy licks his throat — 

His cheek — 

His ear — "My *delicious* boy..." 

"Fuck — fuck, I was waiting for that —" 

"Me to express my good taste?" 

Porthos laughs more — 

Gasps — 

Pushes *cautiously* into Daddy's *working* fist — 

Daddy squeezes *again* — 

"Oh, yeah, yeah — *fuck*, that's so good, so —" 

"Shh, tell me why you were waiting for it. Tell me," Daddy says, and works just the *head* of Porthos's prick — 

Works it with his hardest, roughest *calluses* — 

Just — 

They're a little softer than they were when he and Daddy had first met, but they're still like *rock* compared to the calluses on most people's hands, compared to — 

To — 

And Porthos is whimpering — 

Dancing on his feet and *whimpering* — 

Leaking all over Daddy's fingers and the *desk* — 

And Daddy *nips* his ear and never stops *torturing* him — "You know what you're to do, son." 

"Daddy —" 

"Do it now." 

"*Daddy* —" 

"Do it or I'll hurt you worse..." 

And Porthos makes a *desperate* noise as his prick jerks and spasms and *leaks* — 

"Oh, you want that, do you, son...?" 

"Yeah — yeah, Daddy —" 

"You want to hurt for your Daddy..." 

"Oh, God, please —" 

"That can be arranged, son. But tell me *first*. Tell me why —" 

"I love being good for you! Every — every way I can be!" 

Daddy *pants* against Porthos's ear — 

Laughs — 

And *pinches* the head of Porthos's prick — 

Porthos *howls* as that — that *rush* *slams* through his whole sodding *body* — 

"You know, son..." 

Porthos is dancing on his *feet* again — 

"There *was* actually a chance — albeit a slim one — of me *not* fucking you today..." 

"Oh, God, Daddy, yes, please, *please* —" 

"You're hungry for me, son?" 

"Yes!" 

"You want me to hurt you *that* way?" And Daddy eases the pressure of his pinch — 

Porthos gasps — 

Gasps and *whines* as all the blood rushes right back to the head of his tingling and *jerking* prick — 

Tries to make *words* — 

"Come on, now, son, you can do it..." 

"Y-yes, Daddy, yes, fuck, please, hurt me, fuck me hard, fuck me *hard* —" 

Daddy growls hot and *loud* — "*Absolutely*, son, but you're going to spend *first*." 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"Here," Daddy says, and takes his hand from around Porthos's bollocks and pushes two fingers into Porthos's mouth. 

Porthos doesn't have to be told to get them *good* and wet, good and *slick* with spit — 

"There's my boy," Daddy says, and the smile in his voice is proud, hungry — no. A lot more than that. *Covetous*. Sometimes Daddy doesn't just look at him like he wants to eat Porthos alive — sometimes he looks at Porthos like he wants to crawl inside his skin, his body, his bloody *soul*.

It just makes Porthos want to be better for him, cleaner and stronger and harder and better, and then dirtier again, because he knows what kind of man his Daddy really *is*. 

It makes Porthos want to give it *up*, like this, messy-mouthed and moaning as Daddy pulls out — 

As Daddy starts to toss him off again — 

As Daddy pushes his spit-slick fingers right up against his hole, and — "Am I hurting you here, son?" 

"Yeah — yeah, please —" 

"Are you sure about that?" 

And that's a *strange* question — the kind of question Daddy hasn't asked repeatedly since their *beginnings* — but — "Yeah, I'm sure, please, Daddy, hurt me, I'm *hungry*," Porthos says, making sure to be *clear* — and then *yelling* when Daddy shoves in with those two fingers — 

Those two fingers which are *only* slick with Porthos's spit, and it doesn't matter that they do this fairly often — spit isn't *oil* — 

And he always *forgets* — 

He always — 

Oh, fuck, he's burning for it, *throbbing* around Daddy's thick, rough fingers — 

Aching all over and *throbbing* in his hole — 

Porthos moans and hangs his head — 

The feeling's so big — 

It's always so *big* — 

"Just breathe, son..." 

"Yeah — yeah, Daddy —" 

"Breathe for me..." 

He can't do anything *else* — 

"Breathe for me, because this is *exactly* what you're going to take." 

"Oh —" 

"That's right, son. You *had* a choice, but you don't any longer," Daddy says and kisses Porthos's ear softly. 

Porthos shivers clenches around those fingers and *yells* again — 

Stops himself with a gasp — 

Sweats *bullets* and just gets *harder* — 

"Breathe now, son." 

"Yes — yes —" 

"Breathe it out while I do this," Daddy says, and starts to stroke Porthos's twitching, needy *prick* again — 

"Nuh — *UNH* —" 

"Mm. You forgot about this, didn't you." 

"Daddy —" 

"Yes or no." 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"Good boy," Daddy says, and kisses his ear. "You forgot about how hard you were for me. You *started* to forget just how needy you were for this pain," Daddy says, and starts to rock the fingers he has in Porthos's arse, back and forth and back again, making Porthos dance on his feet, making Porthos groan and — 

"Oh — oh, *God* —" 

"You started to forget how much you needed what I could give you — was the pain too much?" 

Porthos takes a *ragged* breath — 

And another — 

And *another* — "Yes, Daddy, or — 'm not sure, 'm scrambled — I was going to spend if you fucked my *mouth* a little longer —" 

"And now we're denying you even though I don't want to do anything of the kind. Yes, I see. That won't last, son," Daddy says, and sucks Porthos's earlobe — 

"Oh — Daddy —" 

*Works* Porthos's prick, faster than before, hotter and *sweeter* than before — 

Porthos whimpers and tries and fails to spread his *legs* more — 

And then Daddy *twists* his fingers inside Porthos, making Porthos feel huge and open and swollen *tight* at *once* — 

Porthos *shouts* — and whines like a *dog* when Daddy starts working his pleasure-knob *viciously*, massaging and *rubbing* at it *endlessly* — 

He doesn't stop tossing Porthos *off* — 

He doesn't stop kissing and nuzzling Porthos's *ear* — 

He — "Do you like it again yet, son?" 

"Please!" 

"Shh. Do you?" 

"I — I — Daddy —" 

"Answer me, son," Daddy says, and doesn't *stop*. "You know how." 

Porthos groans and takes a breath — 

Another *shuddering* breath — 

"It — still hurts a little too much, Daddy, but —" 

"It's getting there?" 

"Yeah. Oh, God, yeah —" 

"Especially here, son?" And Daddy *stops* stroking Porthos's cock and works his pleasure-knob even faster, even more, even *hotter* — 

"Fuck, fuck, *fuck*, Daddy!" 

"You know how to make it better, son." 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" 

"You know how to make it *right*." 

"Yes — 'm — *I'm* waiting for permission, Daddy!" 

Daddy groans. "Oh, son. Son. You're such a well-behaved boy. My big, sweet prince." 

Porthos blushes *hard*, prickling hot and — "Daddy —"

"Shh. Work your arse for me, son." 

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and clenches purposefully around those thick fingers, eyes widening as he groans — 

As his arse *throbs* — 

As his *arms* shake — 

They feel like they won't *hold* him — 

"How's that, son?" 

"I — I —" 

"You need to do it again?" 

"Yes!" 

"*Do* it." 

Porthos *obeys* — 

And Daddy keeps working his pleasure-knob, sodding *abusing* it with his fingertips — 

Porthos clenches *again* — 

And there it is. That quiver. 

That needy little — 

Porthos hangs his *head* and groans — 

"That's getting it..." 

"Yeah... yeah, Daddy," Porthos says, because he's sweating even more now, slick all over, hard and needy and *hungry* — 

"More." 

"*Yes*," Porthos says, and forces himself to clench *twice*, and now he's really quivering inside, now he's — 

Fuck, he's groaning like a bloody bull-calf — 

It's an *extremely* good thing that it's late enough in the day that most of the men are off to the barracks for a wash and some quiet games, or just out for drinks — 

He can't feel his bloody *knees* — 

He's — 

He's *shoving* himself back on those fingers, because that quiver comes with something like an itch, something like the need to just get *reamed* — 

"Be still, son." 

No , he *needs* more, just more — 

"Do you, then." 

Oh — fuck — that wasn't supposed to be aloud — 

Daddy always sodding *gets* him — but. 

"*Please*, Daddy —" 

"You know you won't get more like this." 

"*Fuck* — I mean — I *do* know, I just —" 

"Work. Your. Arse," Daddy says, and goes back to tossing him off again — 

Porthos *yells* again — 

Quivers and clenches by accident — 

*Holds* the clench — but he has to work, he has to — 

He has to *work*, give Daddy his — his *due* — 

He forces himself to flex open again — 

"Good boy," Daddy says, and presses *hard* on Porthos's pleasure-knob — 

Porthos groans and *drops* to his elbows — 

"Is that so...?" 

"Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

"I didn't tell you to stop working your arse," Daddy says, and strokes Porthos's foreskin, tugs it back out over his swollen cock — 

"Oh, Daddy, fuck — " 

"*Clench*," Daddy says, and works his pleasure-knob harder, *harder* — 

Porthos clenches and flexes open again — 

Clenches and flexes open *again* — 

He's dripping sweat all over the *desk* — 

He's groaning and panting and *shuddering* — 

He's aching *everywhere*, needing to be touched, slapped, fucked — 

God, fucked so hard, please so *hard* — 

His prick is *jerking* in Daddy's hand — 

"That's it... that's it, son, keep going..." 

"Yeah — yes, Daddy —" 

"Keep working that beautiful, beautiful arse for me..." 

"Daddy — *fuck* —" 

"You know I love seeing you clench up tight for me, son," Daddy says, pressing *hard* again — 

Porthos opens his mouth and a groan *falls* out, long and low and desperate — 

"Oh, son. I love how needy you are..." 

Just a whore for his Daddy, just — 

"I love how *perfectly* hungry you are," Daddy says, pressing hard and *squeezing* hard — 

Porthos *sobs* — 

"You've got me hard for you again, son..." 

Yes, fuck, yes — 

"I bet you want me to use you..." 

Porthos's prick spasms *hard* — 

He *yells* — 

He tries — 

He tries to *talk* — 

"*Please*!" There — 

"Oh, son," Daddy says, laughing low and easy. "We both know that's no real punishment for a boy like you..." 

Oh fuck — 

"We both know a boy like you — a needy little *whore* like you —" 

"Ohn — *fuck* — *Daddy* —" 

"— *lives* to be used from time to time," and Daddy works him — 

Works him — 

*Works* him — 

"*Please*!" 

"Are you going to deny that, son?" 

"Nuh — I love it when you use me, Daddy!" 

Daddy pants out a *harsh* breath — and laughs more. "And you know *I* love it when you bloody do *that*. When you — mm. When you give yourself to me —" 

"I'm *yours* —" 

"Fuck, son —" 

"I'm — I'll always *be* —" 

"*Spend*," Daddy says, and stills the fingers in Porthos's arse and tosses him off high and sweet and fast, *fast* — 

Porthos cries out — 

"Don't make me wait, son." 

"Daddy —" 

"Don't ever make me wait for you." 

"'m sorry!" 

"You can talk better than that." 

"Oh, *fuck* — I'm *sorry*!" 

"Good boy. Beautiful. You know I — I need to be inside you, son." 

"Yes — yes, please —" 

"I need to be fucking you *hard*, son." 

"*Yes* —" 

"Don't make me wait one moment *longer* for my beautiful little *whore* —"

Porthos wails and clenches and *jerks* — and starts to spurt, just like that — 

"Oh, son. I will *never* be able to decide whether I love it better when you need things hard and dirty and mean or when you need things a little gentler, and I'm never going to try very hard *to* decide," Daddy says, twisting his fingers and *crooking* — 

Porthos *chokes* on his wail and beats his head on the desk, spurting more — 

"That's it... that's it, son..." 

"D-Daddy —" 

"Give it up. Get *nice* and loose..." 

"Ah, fuck —" 

"That's right, you're going to take me *immediately*, son." 

"Yeah — oh, yeah —" 

"And you're going to spend for me *again*," Daddy says, twisting and *crooking* — 

"*Shit* — nuh — *unh* — it — Daddy —" 

"No rest for my little whore..." 

"Oh, God —"

"Didn't I tell you you were getting punished, son?"

"Daddy — fuck — oh, fuck —" 

And Daddy crooks again *while* squeezing — 

"UNH —" 

"There you are... all over my hand, just like a good boy should be," Daddy says, and licks a *hot* stripe up the side of Porthos's throat — 

"Thank — thank —" 

"Shh. Listen." 

"Fuck — fuck, anything you bloody *say*, Daddy," Porthos says — *pants*, really. He's not quite *drooling* on Daddy's desk, but it's close. The scents of his sweat and spend are bloody everywhere, it seems like, and Daddy's — got him. 

By the prick and by the arse. 

Daddy's always got him, anyway. 

It's enough to let him breathe a little easier — 

Moan again, but still breathe — 

And breathe — 

"Good boy. Keep that up..." 

Porthos shivers and does just that. "Yes, Daddy. Anything you say, Daddy." 

Daddy laughs low. "We were talking about *appropriate* punishments for good, giving boys like you," he says, and starts *rocking* his thick fingers out. Just — 

*In* and out — 

*In* a little shallower and out a little farther — 

*In* a little shallower than that and — "Uhh..." 

Daddy laughs *hard*. "No, son? Can't focus?" 

"Funnily enough..." 

"You make me feel like the finest lover in Creation, son." 

"Again, *funnily enough*." 

Daddy snorts. "Son." 

Porthos grins. "Oi, I'm just dealing in uh... what do the natural philosophers call it? Observable phenomena?" 

Daddy splutters and rocks in *deep* — 

"Aw, *fuck* —" 

"Such a perfect boy you are..." 

"Did you... did you observe that properly, Daddy..." 

"*Oh*, yes. I've been taking detailed notes on the welcoming nature of your jiggly arse." 

"Well, I *do* hope you've been having them sent to the printers for the — uh... uhh..." 

And Daddy is rocking his way *out* again — "Yes, son...?" 

"For... uh..." 

"For the edification of all and sundry, son?" And Daddy *finally* slips *all* the way out — 

"Oh, God, Daddy, you know education is bloody *important* to me," Porthos says, and groans into the wood of the desk — 

"That I do," Daddy says, and there's *that* little *clunk* sound — the sound of a *particular* pot of oil — the office pot — hitting the desk. 

"Please —" 

"Shh. We've got to discuss your *punishment*," Daddy says, and there are the sounds of him stripping down again — 

Slicking his fingers — 

Slicking his *cock* —

Porthos bites his *lip* to keep from begging *more* — 

At which point Daddy *immediately* slaps his arse *twice* — 

"*Yes*!" 

— because he was too quiet, likely. 

"Daddy, *please*." 

"Shh," Daddy says, because he is *definitely* a contrary bastard, and Porthos loves him that way, loves hearing the *smile* in that voice — "That's not your punishment." 

"No, Daddy?" 

"Oh, no. Your punishment... is to get *fucked*." 

"Uhh..." 

"And spend, son. *Quickly*." 

"Uhh..." 

"And then get sucked *off*." 

"Oh. Shit —" 

"And *spend* for your Daddy," Daddy says, spreading Porthos wide and *shoving* in — 

"*Fuck*!" 

All the way *in* — 

All — oh, God, he's so big, he's always so *big* — 

"You'll spend." Daddy *growls*. "You'll spend, again, *quickly* —" 

"Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

"You're going to give and give and *give*, son," Daddy says, panting hard and *growling* as he grips Porthos's hips — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"You're going to give until *I* decide you can stop," Daddy says, pulling out just *enough* and swiveling his slim hips — 

"*Please* — I — I'm sensitive —" 

"I know *that*, son," Daddy says, and swivels his hips *again* — 

"UNH —" 

"You'll recall that I asked you if you were *sure* you wanted all that pain..." 

"Oh — *shit* —" 

"You *asked* for this, son," Daddy says, and *slams* in, *right* against Porthos's pleasure-knob — 

Porthos *howls* — 

"You. Bloody. *Asked*," Daddy says, pulling out and slamming in — 

In — 

*In*, *punishing* Porthos's pleasure-knob every *time*, and it's already swollen, already bruised, already sensitized enough to strike sparks in Porthos's bloody *soul* every — 

Every *time* — 

Porthos groans and *sweats* — 

Grinds his face against his own balled fists and *sobs* — 

"*Take* it, son," Daddy says, and just — 

Just doesn't *stop*, and Porthos's prick is already spasming for it, trying *hard* to plaster itself against his belly and twitching and jerking and leaking all over, fuck, all *over* — 

He needs to be touched — 

He'll go off too *quickly* if he *is*, and then Daddy will just make him spend *again* — but. 

But that's his punishment. 

He's *supposed* to spend again and again, spend until he loses his bloody *mind*. That's what he's *earned*. That's what he's *begged* for — 

And so he can't resist it or hide from it or — "Daddy — *Daddy*," he says, and he manages to *lift* his head — 

"*Talk*, son." 

"Daddy — my prick — please touch my *prick*! I'll spend faster for you!"

Daddy growls, rhythm stuttering — "Is that so, son?"

"Yeah — I —" 

"You're ready to take your punishment good and proper for your Daddy?" 

Porthos's prick jerks *hard* — 

He can't *talk* — 

He can't do more than make *noise* — 

But then Daddy *grips* his prick — "Answer me." 

"I — I —" 

Daddy *strokes* him and fucks him and strokes him *more* — 

"Oh, *fuck* —" 

"*Answer* me, son. Be my good little whore." 

"*Shit* — 'm always ready for you, I'm always *ready* for you!" 

And Daddy growls *more*, fucks him harder, *harder* — 

"*Yes* —" 

Daddy gets his hand situated just that *way* — 

Gets his thumb pressed to the vein and — 

Fuck — 

*Fuck* — 

"*Daddy*!" 

"Tell me you love it, son —" 

"I love it!" 

"Tell me you never —" Daddy *grunts* as he slams in and in and — "Never *bloody* want me to *stop*." 

"Don't — don't — ah, *fuck* —" 

"*Tell* me!" 

Porthos clenches hard and *howls* — 

"Ah, God, the sounds you *make* for me, son — the sounds you — make *more*!" And Daddy fucks him faster, not harder, *strokes* him faster — 

Porthos chokes and shakes and *gurgles* — 

"Oh, *son* —" 

"Daddy —" 

"Come on, then, give it to me, give me your *spend* —" 

And Porthos drops his head again, bites his own knuckles and *sobs* again — 

Daddy *strips* his cock and fucks him — 

So — 

*Hard* — 

Porthos sobs again — 

*Again* — 

"Oh, *son*, you make me so *hard*," Daddy growls, squeezing him *tight* and reaching round for his bollocks, too — 

"Oh — God — *God* —" 

"Already spending far — nnh — far too much *time* with the *seminarian* —" 

And Porthos *gasps* a laugh — and then it hits, hits like an explosion, like artillery, like Daddy sodding fucking him just this *good*, because he can't laugh, because he can't do anything but cough and groan and spend, splash into the puddle he'd *already* made — 

"Oh, *son*, *yes*," Daddy says, crushing his bollocks right up against his spasming prick and shoving in and in and in and *in* — 

So good — 

So *good*, and Porthos expects another gasp as the spend seems to almost *punch* its way out of him, but he *sobs* again — 

There are tears on his *cheeks* — 

*Daddy* is groaning — 

Milking him that much *more*, and now Porthos is whimpering, needing — 

*Needing* — 

"Daddy, *please*!" Oh, fuck, it sounds like he's *crying* — 

Daddy *grunts* — 

*Slams* in — 

Releases Porthos's tackle and *pins* Porthos to the desk by his wrists and — 

And has him, just has him, just bloody well *has* him, just uses his whore *exactly* the way his whore was meant to be *used*, and all Porthos can do is groan utterly helplessly, *drool* and pant and turn his head to the side to try and fail to catch his breath as his body quivers inside and *out* — 

He was made for this. 

He was sodding *made* for this — 

There's nothing *better* than this, because it feels like Daddy really *is* going to crawl right inside him this time, just — 

Take up *residence* — 

"Ah, fuck, son, your *smile* —" 

And then he can *still* say things like *that*, like — "Oh, God, Daddy, it's you, it's *you* —" 

Daddy gasps and thrusts *raggedly*, rough and *dirty*, and Porthos can't help falling into it, because these are the moments when Daddy is *struggling* to keep his control, *fighting* to be good to Porthos, to his *son*, fighting and *losing*, and it all feels so bloody perfect — 

So hot and hard and *good* — 

Of *course* Porthos is smiling for it — 

For the way the thrusts just get more and *more* ragged — 

Hungry — 

*Rough* — Daddy is shoving him up on his *toes* — 

"Fuck — *fuck*, son —" 

"Yeah, Daddy — *yeah*," Porthos says, and he can't catch his breath, can't *remember* to breathe for how good it is just to *feel* Daddy having him, *reaming* him — 

"I want to fuck you until you're *my* age," Daddy growls — 

Porthos flexes open *helplessly* — 

Daddy *barks* a laugh — and fucks him hard, hard, *hard* while Porthos groans and stays loose, nice and loose — 

"Fuck — *son* —" 

As loose as he *can* be after getting worked like *that* — and maybe he's grinning like an idiot now, but — 

"Oh — *God*, son —" 

"*Now* who's spending too much — too much bloody time with the seminarian?" 

Daddy growls — "I want to fuck you *into* him, son..." 

"UNH —" And Porthos clenches up *tight*, pleasure *thrumming* through him and leaving him weak and needy and — "*Daddy* —" 

"Son — *fuck*, you feel too perfect, too good, too — stay just like this, just for a little —" 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" Porthos says, and tries to clench harder, tries to be right, just right, just — 

And Daddy fucks him wild and hot and so — 

So fucking — 

It's so *hot*, and Porthos can smell *both* of them sweating now, smell their salt and the way it seems like they make something new and *perfect* together. Something hard and raw and sweet — 

So *sweet* — 

So *hot* as Daddy squeezes Porthos's wrists hard enough to grind the bones together, slams in one more time, and — spills. 

Hot and wet — 

So *wet* — 

So — familiar and right and *home*, Porthos is *home*, Porthos is exactly where he bloody *belongs*, and it hadn't been like this *immediately* — 

It had *taken* a few reamings — 

A few times bent over this desk — 

A few times on his hands and knees in the rooms he'd rented for himself before he *was* Porthos du Vallon de Tréville — 

A few times up against walls here and there and also *there*, and all of it was just the same. 

All of it let him know the same *thing*: Porthos was here to stay. 

And Daddy would make sure of it. 

Porthos sighs and *holds* Daddy through the spasms of his prick — 

Holds him *tight* with his arse until that prick is nice and steady and *still* in him — and softening just a little bit — and *then* he lets himself go loose. 

Daddy growls at him. 

Porthos *opens* his eyes — he can only *see* Daddy with one, but that one is showing him a Daddy looking down at him like a *hungry* killer. Which is one of Porthos's *favorite* looks. "Should I clench up tight again, Daddy?" 

Daddy licks his lips. "I... think I just want to fuck you until we both die." 

"Sounds perfect to me. Let me just brace myself a little *worse*..." 

Daddy laughs *hard* — and leans in enough to lick some of the drool from Porthos's beard — 

"Fuck —" 

— before kissing his cheek. "I hope you're ready to spend in your Daddy's mouth..." 

Porthos's prick twitches *painfully* hard and *violently* — 

His eyes go *wide* — 

"I — I —" 

"*I* made you a promise, son." 

"Oh — *fuck* — uh. Uh..." 

Daddy laughs *meanly*. "Yes...?" 

"Don't you want to... uh... stay in my arse a bit longer?" 

Daddy laughs *more*. "No," he says, and starts pulling *out*. 

"Oh — fuck. *Fuck* —" 

"You can feel free to *beg*, son..." 

"Daddy, *please*!" 

"Please what, mm?" 

"Please don't — don't make me afraid of spending for the rest of my *life*?" And Porthos laughs *hard*. "Fuck, Daddy, you're bloody *vicious*." 

"Comes with the territory, son," Daddy says, pulling out slow and steady and — 

And *absolutely* making Porthos feel how swollen his arse is. *Fuck*. Porthos turns to brace himself better and pants against the backs of his hands, just feeling it, *feeling* it, because he *could* even out his breathing — 

Loosen himself *up* — 

But that wouldn't be half so good as this. This *grip* he's got on his Daddy — 

"Oh, son..." 

"Yeah — *yeah* —" 

This absolute *hold*, and the way Daddy's slowing down even more so *he* can enjoy it — 

*He's* panting his way out — "Fuck, son..." 

"Yours, I'm bloody yours —" 

"I'll never — never *forget*," Daddy says, squeezing Porthos's hips — 

Porthos flexes *open* again — 

"Oh, *son*," Daddy says, and, "Should I slow down even more?" 

"Nnh — if you —" 

"I want you in my mouth."

Porthos *clenches* — 

"That's got it," Daddy says, laughing low and going back to pulling out — 

"You're such a bastard, Daddy," Porthos says, moaning against the desk. 

"That I am, that I am... mm. Mm. There you are. Your swollen rim round the head of my cock..." 

"Ungh —" 

Daddy *rocks*, sending *zings* of fire and pressure and pleasure and what feels like impossible *size* all *through* Porthos — 

"UNH —" 

"Now the question is," Daddy says, and rocks *again* — 

"Ah shit —" 

"If I want to do *this* until you get desperately hard again," he says, and rocks — 

"Fuck —" 

And rocks — 

"Daddy, *please*!" 

"Please what...?" 

"Please never stop being a bastard!" And Porthos laughs breathlessly and — doesn't bite his hand. Daddy *likes* his noises, and it *is* late enough in the day that he can get away with it. 

"Well, that can be arranged, son," Daddy says, and rocks in and out and in and out and — 

Fuck, Porthos is *drooling* again — 

Losing his *mind* for the friction and *heat* and the way it makes him want to get fucked *again*, even though it's not the best plan after *that* fucking and *that* fingering — 

And — 

Fuck, they've *experimented*, pushed things, seen how *much* Porthos's arse could take from a Daddy on a sodding *mission*, and — three times in a night *isn't* out of the realm of possibility, but at least *one* of the *first* two times has to be a little *gentle*. 

Which. 

They'd kind of messed up on. 

But Porthos is going to start *needing* to get fucked in a minute — 

*Less* than a minute with the way his prick is starting to *ache* for it — 

Fuck — 

*Fuck* — 

"You're getting a bit quiet down there, son..." 

"I. Daddy..." 

Daddy grunts — and stops immediately. "I know *that* 'Daddy'. I'm pulling out." 

"Shit — sorry —" 

"Shh, no. I should've planned better. I was too hungry for you." 

Porthos flushes. "I made you wait too long." 

Daddy laughs and grips one hip while rubbing soothing circles at the small of Porthos's back with his other hand. "You make me wait too long when you're *training*, son." 

"Ah — fuck —" 

"You make me wait too long when we're *both* sleeping." 

"Daddy —" 

"You make me wait too long when we're at the palace waiting the King's pleasure and I can smell you next to me but can't *touch* you." 

"Daddy, I'll *clench* —" 

"No. You won't." 

Porthos flexes open *wide* — 

He can *feel* — 

"There you are," Daddy says, and pulls the rest of the way out. 

"*Fuck*, you always work me *perfectly*, Daddy," Porthos says, laughing and moaning and staying right where he bloody *is*. 

"You always respond —" Daddy growls a little, and *that* means... 

Porthos licks his lips. "Is it maybe time for Porthos du Vallon de Tréville to go on some shit Special Punishment Detail for a week —" 

"Son —" 

"So Daddy can have his boy just the way he wants him for, say, five *solid* days?" 

"And two days to recover," Daddy says, and sounds utterly helpless, hungry and needy and — 

He's got his hands on Porthos's back again, splayed against the skin, making Porthos feel *exactly* how much he *wants* Porthos in his hands — 

*All* in his hands — 

"That's right, Daddy. You know that'll be all I need to be perfect on the *eighth* day —" 

"Porthos —" 

"You know you can *have* me —" 

"Don't." 

"*Daddy* —" 

"The Spanish are making precisely too *little* noise, son, and you know it —"

"I —" 

"Shut it. You're the best man I've got, and you know that, *too* —" 

"When exactly are we going to stop pretending that you don't want Olivier right sodding *here*?" 

Daddy's hands still on Porthos the way they *always* do when Olivier's name comes up, and — 

Yeah. *Once* upon a time that had made Porthos a mite jealous. 

A mite *worried* about *losing* his Daddy to the pretty aristocrat who knew all the things Daddy knew, who'd read all the *books* Daddy had read, and who was just *better* at every sodding weapon, *too*. 

Now... 

Well. 

He's had some time to get to know the bloke — and his odd and sweet and bookish little brother Thomas, too. 

He's had some time to spar with him, and shoot with him, and wrestle with him when he needed to salve his pride. 

He's had some time to *talk* with him, and *be* with him, and start the *process* of becoming a brother to him, and have *him* become a brother to *Porthos*. And *not* complete it, because he's *also* had some time to see the jealousy in *Olivier's* eyes every time Daddy smiles at *Porthos*. 

Because Daddy's being a bit of an idiot. 

Not that he'd say that *while* bent over his desk. 

There's a time and place for such things. 

So, he waits his Daddy out. 

A little more — 

A little sodding *more* — 

A little — right, now. "Daddy." 

"Son... we... we've talked about this." 

No, they bloody — 

Well, no. They have. 

"Daddy, we talked about it the night we bloody met!" 

Daddy's hands *shake* on his back — 

"We talked about it over two bloody *years* ago!" 

He takes his hands away. "Son, I need you — one of the reasons why I need you —" 

"You need me to help you keep your *control*. I *know* that. And I know what you're *really* saying right now is that you don't think having me will be *enough* if Olivier is right here —" 

"I dream... about the two of you together." 

"Well, that's a bloody coincidence, Daddy, 'cause I do, too!" 

And Daddy's silent for a *long* moment — 

A *really* long moment — 

"*Daddy* —" 

"I... am profoundly glad not to be in your arse any longer, son, being as how you would *need* those two days off after the pounding you just earned yourself," Daddy says, and coughs laughter. 

That's a lot better than *most* of the alternatives, really. Porthos folds his arms beneath his head and leaves his arse *right* up in the air. "Did I, then?" 

Daddy growls — and those hands are right back where they belong. 

And that still-half-hard prick is brushing up against the backs of his thighs, too. 

Daddy strokes him, pets him — 

Porthos sighs for the treatment — 

"Son..." 

"I'm listening." 

"You're preparing to beat me with my own hypocrisies, is what you are." 

"But that doesn't *preclude* listening, Daddy." 

Daddy laughs more and starts massaging him expertly and *meanly* — 

"Oh — shit —" 

"I watched you do this to him after you beat him to the ground five straight times..." 

Porthos groans. "I came very close to doing one hell of a lot more."

"I could tell. I... what stopped you," Daddy says — not asks. He already — 

"You already know that, Daddy." 

Daddy cups Porthos's shoulders and squeezes. "I'm holding you apart."

"Yeah." 

"Fuck. I —" 

"He *is* a stick in some ways, and it *does* keep him from seeing what's right in front of his face *sometimes*, but one, he's *not* a sodding idiot, and two, he *loves* you, and three, he *respects* you, so he looks at *us* —" 

"Ah — God —" 

"He looks at the way we look at each other, the way we talk to each other, the way we *touch* each other — even though we keep things aboveboard when we're over there —" 

"He doesn't know." 

"No, he doesn't. But you *can't* tell me that *you* don't know that the thought has occurred to him again and a-bloody-gain. He's just shot it down. Again and *again*." 

"Because — of the way he feels about us." 

Porthos snorts. 

"Porthos —" 

"No, I — I wasn't kicking up, Daddy. It *is* because of the way he feels about both of us. I just wonder why I rate it sometimes — oh." 

"Yes, son?" And that was a *growl* —

"I uh. Remembered that I'm not supposed to say things like that." 

"Did you." 

"Yes, Daddy. I'm sorry, Daddy." 

"Are you?" 

"Yes, Daddy. I'm not to speak about your son like that." 

Daddy growls more — 

Pants — 

"Son... son. I need you. More every day." 

"I'm yours more every day," Porthos says, low and honest. "Please just — don't let *me* hold *you* away from Olivier. That's — that's not good for any of us."

"Is that what I'm doing?" 

"I don't know, Daddy. Is it?" 

Daddy tugs on Porthos's shoulders — 

Porthos stands and turns around, looking down on Daddy until Daddy *pushes* on his shoulders — 

Porthos can *absolutely* sit in his own spend. 

Daddy strokes down over Porthos's chest and belly — 

Massages his thighs — 

*Spreads* his thighs *wide* — 

"Oh — yeah —" 

"You're always ready for me," Daddy says — *to* Porthos's thighs. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Daddy... are you worried about Olivier *not* being ready —" 

"*No* — fuck. I don't need him — that..." 

"Yeah, please don't try to tell that lie, Daddy." 

Daddy laughs ruefully and rests his head on Porthos's shoulder. He's still dressed — the only things missing are the *cloak* and the *hat* — and this — 

This is one of the things Porthos needs like meat, like bread, like Daddy's hard *prick*. He wraps his arms round his Daddy and squeezes tight — 

"Oh, son..." 

"Haven't had this in a while," Porthos says. 

"I'm... supposed to..." 

"Shh," Porthos says, and kisses Daddy's forehead. 

Daddy chuckles, but — they're past the days when he'd automatically push away. "You know I *have* to kick for that." 

"Not too hard, though, right?" 

Daddy sighs — 

And kisses Porthos's pulse-point — 

"Not too hard, no," he says, wrapping his own strong arms round Porthos's waist and squeezing hard. 

"Missed this, Daddy." 

"Mm. One day I'll remember that. Believe it without berating myself for... well. Everything you're fully aware of at this point," Daddy says and nips Porthos's earlobe. 

Porthos shivers. "One day. I'll still be here then, too. Or, at the very least, somewhere you can reach out and grab me." 

Daddy sighs again and kisses a path from behind Porthos's ear back to his pulse-point. "My beautiful son." 

"Yours. And not your only one." 

"Porthos..." 

"You know it's time, Daddy," Porthos says. "This shite where you're all 'this far and no farther' with Olivier and Thomas has to stop. *All* of us know you want more, and they're *both* wondering what the hell is stopping you. And Olivier, at least, is convinced that it's *him*." 

"No — shit. *Shit*." 

"That's *right*. You *know* he's like that. You know he's the *sort* to blame himself for things which have nothing to do with him — at least not in bad ways." 

"And — *Christ*," Daddy says, and bangs his head on Porthos's shoulder, which is something that always gives Porthos a little thrill. 

Like maybe he's big enough, hard enough, *solid* enough to make that *satisfying* for his Daddy. He holds him tighter — 

"I — what about Thomas?" 

"Fretting quietly and *correctly*, the way *he* does. He's never going to say a *word*, either way. Olivier won't, *either*, but —" 

"Thomas will be even more subtle about not saying those words. *Right*," Daddy says, growling and throwing himself back into the chair, then pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"Daddy, just — just *do* it. Let yourself have them. I'll have the talk with Olivier about what's what between *us*, prep him a little, and then —" 

"And then he'll offer himself to me on a silver platter, whether or *not* I'm what he *wants*." 

"Uh." 

"He'll be *more* likely to do it if he *doesn't* want me, you know, son." 

"*Daddy* —" 

"Stop and think," Daddy says, hard and sharp despite being slumped in the chair in front of his desk. "Consider your brother, not the man you would have as my second son." 

Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it right up tight again, because — 

Because. 

"The more he actually wants you — and he bloody *does*, Daddy — the more he'll second-guess himself about whether or not *you* want *him*." 

"Precisely." 

"Because of that scar — and because of me." 

"Again, precisely," Daddy says, dropping his hand and crossing his legs. 

"Because — I couldn't be more different from him without being bloody — bloody *Swedish* or something —" 

Daddy laughs painfully. "That. *Too*." 

"Shit, *Daddy* —" 

"I have to talk to him —" 

"You have to do a lot more than *that* —" 

"I have to tell him — everything." 

"Yes, you sodding *do*!" 

"I have to suck your cock *immediately*." 

"Oh, God." 

Daddy grins at him *dirtily*. 

"Daddy —" 

Daddy licks his *lips*. 

Porthos's prick twitches *violently* — "Daddy — *fuck* — we should *talk* —" 

"Your Daddy needs a *tonic*, son." 

"My Daddy needs a *beating* —" 

"Probably that, too. But spread your legs for me anyway," he says, and scoots his chair closer — 

"Fuck fuck — *fuck* —" 

"That's it, son. Show your Daddy what's his." 

Porthos grunts as his prick *jerks* — and spatters Daddy's tunic.

"Oh, son. Leaking already? I'm flattered."

"*Fuck*, Daddy —" 

"Or were you thinking of your brother? Hm?" 

"I —" 

"Rubbing him down on the divan in the solarium while he groans for you..." 

"Oh — shit — I've *had* that — I've *done* that —" 

"While he gets harder for you..." 

"Hnh — Daddy —" 

"I walked away — I called myself being well-*behaved*." 

"Oh, God," Porthos says, and his prick jerks *twice* — 

It spatters Daddy's *cheek* — 

"Daddy —" 

"Did he call your name?" 

"Y-yeah, Daddy —" 

"Did he tell you that your touch was... wonderful?" 

"Yeah —" 

"He's told me the same — fervently —" 

Porthos *moans* as his prick twitches and *drips* — 

"He's looked up at me with those blue eyes and *begged* — albeit silently — for a great deal more than I could give to the fifteen-year-old son of one of the brothers of my heart." 

"Oh — shit — this was before —" 

"Before Laurent died, yes. Years before. And years before I met you." 

Porthos shivers. "You went home and tossed yourself off *brutally*." 

"I went back to my *rooms* in the de la Fère *manor* and tossed myself off brutally, with *one* hand, while the other — which still smelled and tasted of Olivier's sweat and *struggle* — was *mostly* in my mouth. For the first few *seconds*, I managed to tell myself I was doing that to keep myself quiet —" 

Porthos *coughs* — 

And Daddy's smile gets even dirtier. "Exactly. He tasted perfect. Just like you." 

Porthos *grips* the desk to either side of his hips. "Was that — the closest you ever got?" 

Daddy nods once. "I made sure there was always someone else to rub him down once he came for his three seasons of training. Someone competent and not at *all* inclined toward buggery." 

"And tossed yourself off —" 

"Brutally. I've wondered, more than once, if his scar is mine." 

"You *look* at it like it is." 

Daddy blinks — and colours *deeply*. "I'm... less than surprised by that, in retrospect. I kept myself correct around him when he was here, son. I... when he was hurt, it was one of the few times that I was letting myself watch him fence —" 

"And he was showing off for Daddy." 

Daddy winces. "I — do and don't hope that. And you know *all* the reasons why." 

"Yeah. 's hot that *you're* hot for such a nasty thing," Porthos says, and waits to see if Daddy will make him speak *properly* for *this*... 

Instead, Daddy winces with lust and just a *little* self-disgust. 

Not enough to worry about. "Should I show off for you, Daddy...?" 

"You don't *have* to. You excel by *existing* around these men." 

Porthos laughs. "Meaning you want to see me and *Olivier* wrestling more —" 

"Son, if I could watch that every *day* it wouldn't be enough." 

Porthos laughs harder. "Maybe I'll pin him, then." 

"You always do." 

"Maybe I'll hold him down, in the dirt." 

"You always do." 

"Maybe I'll hold him down for just long enough that he gets confused. Not worried — he trusts me — but *confused*." 

"Oh... son." 

"Maybe I'll wait until he calls my name in question..." 

Daddy growls and leans in, gripping Porthos's right thigh with one hand and the base of his prick with the other — 

Squeezing hard — 

*Harder* — 

Porthos grunts and *whines* — 

"*Talk*." 

Porthos feels his belly *drop* — "Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and looks down into Daddy's eyes as he starts to toss him off again — 

Starts to *work* his sensitive prick so *good* — 

"Yes — fuck — more — more of the same?" 

"Put me in the right frame of *mind*, son. This is a conversation I have to have *soon*, after all." 

"Oh — fuck, Daddy, *yes*!" 

Daddy squeezes *again* — 

Porthos cries *out* — 

"Good boy. *Talk*." 

"Yes, Daddy! I'll — I'll wait until he calls my name —" 

"More." 

"And — then I'll lean in —" 

"You'll whisper in his ear?" 

Porthos moans and pushes cautiously into Daddy's fist — 

"Be still, son." 

Porthos *drops* back down onto the desk. "Yes, Daddy, sorry, Daddy —" 

"Shh. Just tell me." 

"I'll *kiss* his ear. I'll lick it and suck it and — and pin him harder if he fights. But — but I think he'll go *still* first." 

Daddy shudders and squeezes him *again* — 

Growls and *sweats* — 

They're *both* sweating — 

"Daddy — fuck — Daddy, it *hurts* —" 

"Will you spend anyway?" 

"Maybe — maybe not —" 

Daddy *pants* and loosens his grip. "Oh, son. Good boy. Good, *honest* boy..." 

Porthos moans and sweats even *more*, forcing himself not to arch even as the feeling of all the blood rushing back goes right to his spine, even as Daddy starts *stroking* again, staring back and forth between Porthos's prick and his face — 

"My beautiful *son*..." 

"Yours!" 

"Give me more. Give me *more*." 

"I'm — I'm making it better?" 

"You always *do*, son, you —" And Daddy smiles, rueful and wry, broad and bright and *young* the way he can get, even with all those lines cutting *deep*. 

Like always, it takes Porthos's breath away. "Daddy..." 

"You've made everything about taking this job — and about being who I *am* in this world — worthwhile, son." 

Porthos moans loudly and *shakes* — 

He's leaking and twitching hard, *hard* — 

"I — he'll go still, Daddy, because he always locks up a little right before he's about to do something devastating to someone he likes — we have to beat that out of him —" 

"Yes, we absolutely do — he didn't have that problem with the other recruits, by the way —" 

"Oh — fuck —" 

"And he doesn't *just* 'like' you — that's never been how he *or* Thomas work —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"But keep *going*," Daddy says, and strokes him fast and sweet, gentle and *sweet* — 

Porthos pants and *shudders* — "He'd ask me what I was *doing* —" 

"You'd be blunt." 

"I — I'd tell him I was doing exactly what — what our *father* —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"— *wanted* me to do —" 

"He'd fight you. You *know* he'd fight you —" 

"I'd pin him again — harder —" 

"Perhaps... face to face?" 

"Spread — spread his thighs with my knees, Daddy —" 

"More. *More*." 

"You would've already talked to him —" 

"*Yes*. This is *our* reward for that —" 

"Oh, God, Daddy —" 

"*More*."

"I'd tell him about — how we talked about him, Daddy," Porthos says and feels the sweat *pouring* off him again — 

Running down the hollow of his back — 

Trickling down his *chest* — 

It feels like he's in an *oven* — 

And Daddy *slurps* the sweat from his belly-button — 

Licks *more* sweat from between his belly and mound — 

Licks the *slick* from the head of Porthos's prick — 

"*Daddy*!" 

*Sucks* the head of his prick in — 

Sucks it *hard* — 

Porthos gasps and shudders — 

He knows what he's supposed to *do* — 

"I'd tell him — I'd tell him how you tossed yourself off for him, to him, while tasting his — his *sweat* —" 

Daddy *groans* — 

Groans *around* him — 

Porthos *grunts*, prick *flexing* in Daddy's fist and *mouth* — 

No, keep going, keep *going* — 

"I'd tell him how I'd done the same bloody *thing*, how I was thinking of kissing him for — for bloody *hours* —" 

*Daddy* grunts and jerks Porthos's prick faster, *faster* — 

"Daddy, please — please let me —" 

Daddy *growls* and slows *down* — 

Porthos groans and shakes and *claws* the desk, but he can — he *can*. "I'd — I'd tell him how I was thinking of kissing his prick while he kissed mine, doing him slow, so — fuck — fuck, Daddy, you *know* he's a virgin!" 

Daddy growls around him again and — 

Swallows him, just like that. 

Takes him all the way *in* — 

Porthos whimpers and whines and he — 

He can't stop himself from crying *out* — 

From doing it *again* when Daddy starts *massaging* his *bollocks* — 

"*Daddy*, you — oh, fuck — oh, *fuck* —" 

Daddy *groans* in his *chest* — 

It's that *needy* groan — 

He *squeezes* Porthos's bollocks — 

Porthos *gasps* — "I'd make him *want* it!" 

Daddy opens his *mouth* around him, even though Porthos's cock is still in his *throat*. Daddy *drools* on him —

Closes his mouth and *slurps* — 

"Watch — I'd watch his eyes and — fuck — squeeze me —" 

Daddy squeezes him *again* — 

"*Yes*! Thank you, Daddy —!" 

And then Daddy starts — starts bobbing his *head* — 

Porthos groans and sways and falls back on his *elbows*, barking them a *good* one on the desk — 

No, more — 

More — "I'd see what he *liked*, and — and that's what I'd talk — nngh — about —" 

Daddy slurps *nasty* around the head — 

"That's what I'd *do*, that's what I'd give him, that's — 's what I'd *take* —" 

Daddy *grunts* and — and *kisses* the head of Porthos's prick, kisses it hard and hot and *wet* — 

"*Fuck* — I'd — I think he'd like if I got *nasty* with him, if I — he keeps asking me about why I don't wear cologne — he's been bloody *sniffing* me, looking *hungry*. I bet he'd love it if I ate his arse, I bet he'd sodding drool for —" And then Porthos is *screaming*, because Daddy is scraping his prick with his sodding *teeth* — 

Slowly — 

So sodding *slowly* — 

All the way up his *prick* — 

"*Daddy*!" 

And then Daddy gulps air before gulping *him* again, just like that — 

Porthos whimpers more and *pants* — 

He can't — 

He can't *focus* — 

His sweaty fingers are *slipping* on the *desk* — 

But he has a job to do. He — 

"I'd teach him how, Daddy. I — I'd do him slow and wet, dirty, fucking — sodding — I'd kiss his clenching little hole, virginal little hole —" 

Daddy swallows *hard* around him — 

Porthos *shouts* — no, more — "I'd *suck* his hole and I wouldn't — no, I *would* make him beg for it, I'd *stop* and make him beg for it, beg for more, or maybe beg to be *fucked* —" 

Daddy pulls off again —

"Please!" 

"Do. Exactly. That." 

"Bloody — all right! Please suck me more!" 

Daddy grins *meanly* — 

"Please!" 

Daddy *laughs* meanly — and swallows him *deep* — 

"*Fuck* me — wait — I — no, I — I was *talking*," Porthos says, panting and groaning and slipping in his own spend and laughing breathlessly — 

Daddy *nods* — 

"I'd fuck him with my — my *tongue*. Fast. *Fast*. Then I'd shove in a finger — I. I think he'd go off like bloody — artillery — Daddy, please, oh, fuck, *fuck*, I want to *touch* you!" 

Daddy lifts his free hand and makes a come-on gesture, and that — 

Porthos cups his head gently, gently, because this is a privilege, this is always a privilege, even though Daddy allows it far more often than not — 

Porthos cups Daddy's shoulder with his other hand — 

Porthos strokes and pets and squeezes and — 

*Shouts* when Daddy scrapes with his teeth again — 

Again — 

Sucks and bobs his head and bobs and bobs and — 

Porthos is *yelling* — 

Arching — 

Daddy scrapes *again* — 

Daddy's going to leave him *needy* for — 

For just this, all of this — 

Fuck, he can't stop yelling, can't stop *molesting* his Daddy's head and shoulders, can't stop — 

And the first time his body thrusts without permission, he gasps, blushes, *flushes* — "'m sorry! *I'm* sorry!"

But Daddy groans in his chest again, lashes fluttering — 

Daddy makes a come-on gesture *while* scraping him — 

Porthos thrusts — 

*Yells* —

Daddy gulps and groans — 

Swallows and *swallows* — 

Cups Porthos's hips and *pulls* — 

Pulls him *in* — 

*In* — 

*In*, and now he's *gripping* Porthos's hips, letting Porthos feel the *new* bruises on top of the older and oldest ones, letting Porthos feel how much he *wants* — 

He pulls *harder* — 

Porthos staggers to his *feet* — 

Braces himself with one hand on Daddy's shoulder and one hand behind him on the *desk* — and fucks his Daddy, fucks him hard, fast, *right* — 

Daddy groans more — 

Daddy grips his *arse* — 

Sodding *claws* it - 

"Nuh — Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

Daddy is groaning *constantly* now, noise getting chopped to pieces by the way Porthos is *fucking* him — 

Daddy is stroking Porthos's swollen *cleft* — 

Daddy is — 

Oh, fuck, pushing *in*, just with one, but it feels — 

It feels so bloody *huge* — 

"Th-thank you, Daddy!" And Porthos has to fuck him faster, has to give it to his Daddy, show him how much he needs it, how much he loves it, loves his Daddy, loves it when his Daddy *takes* him like this and *uses* him — 

Takes his prick and takes his arse and makes him — 

Makes him his — 

And every swallow just makes him more sensitive, more hot, more needy — 

Every hot-nasty *slurp* just makes his bollocks tighter and more *ready* — 

Every *shove* of that hard, rough finger — 

"Daddy — D-Daddy —" 

And then Daddy *looks* at him, eyes somehow managing to be hard as nails and hot as fire and hazy as a summer sunrise all at *once* — 

Daddy *looks* at him and has him *that* way — 

And Porthos whimpers *high* — 

Clenches *tight* — 

*Yells* at the still-shocking *thrill* of being just that swollen and well-*used* — 

Just that perfectly *sore* — 

And fucked — 

And *fucked* — 

And — 

Porthos's knees buckle and he grips Daddy and the desk tighter, holds on as he sodding *trembles* — 

Daddy just keeps *swallowing* while he *works* him with his tongue, with his thick finger, with his lips and — 

Teeth — 

And Porthos *slams* in before he can *stop* himself — 

Daddy groans *low* — 

And Porthos whimpers and *sobs* as he spends right down Daddy's *throat*. 

Just — 

Just *jerking* right in there, right *in* there, and when Porthos *stops* thrusting, Daddy *claws* his arse again to make him yell and *buck*. 

And Daddy swallows — 

And swallows — 

And looks up at him with hungry and *evil* pride while Porthos pants and spasms and — 

Fuck, *keeps* spasming, keeps jerking and shaking and *trembling* even though he's got nothing *left*. Just — 

"Daddy — Daddy, I — please let me pull out of your throat?" 

Daddy nods once. 

Porthos sighs in relief and *does* so — 

Rests on Daddy's *tongue* — 

And *yells* more when Daddy sucks *hard* — "*Shit* — *fuck* — *FUCK* —" 

And then Daddy releases him — 

Pulls *off* — 

Grips the base of Porthos's prick and *kisses* the head — 

And then lets himself fall against the back of the chair. 

"Bloody *hell*, Daddy!" 

Daddy responds by snickering like a boy. 

Porthos blows and pants and trembles his way back to sitting in the wet spot. "Fuck. You're a *bastard*." 

Daddy grins. "That I am." 

"And —" 

"*And*... I'm not done with your punishment..." 

Porthos feels all the blood drain from his face and *rush* to his *madly* intrigued prick. "Uh. Daddy?" 

Daddy grins. "Did you or did you *not* tell Aramis that you'd meet him tonight...?" 

"I — I did, actually. I mean. Well, I said I would if you weren't too 'angry' with me, but obviously I don't have to —" 

Daddy laughs, low and *evil* again.

"Daddy?" 

"You're going, son." 

"Uh." 

"You're *going*... and you're going to have an excellent time with the boy. Assuming that he truly is as fascinating and personable as he's shown himself to be to *both* of us." 

"Uh. All right..." 

"You're going to have *such* an excellent time with him... that you fuck him *mindless*." 

"What." 

Daddy *grins*, showing about nine thousand teeth and throwing his booted feet up on the desk next to Porthos's left hip. "You heard me." 

"Daddy —" 

"Shh. I'm not whoring you out, son. I've yet to meet anyone remotely worth the privilege who would be remotely *interested* in that sort of thing. Well — anyone still living. No. You don't *have* to fuck him. But if you find yourself desiring him, and he finds himself throwing himself bodily at my beautiful, passionate, brilliant, *magnificent* boy... well. You're not to hold yourself back." 

Porthos frowns. "Because... I gave him too much time?"

Daddy's smile freezes on his face, and he drops his feet again, standing and moving and *gripping* Porthos by the jaw. "No." 

"Right, well, the *seriousness* of that is coming off you in *waves*, Daddy, but —" 

"But you need more. Tell me what you need so I can give it to you. Be specific." 

"I — *why* do you want me to fuck him?" 

"Specific reasons, in no particular order," Daddy says, and leans in enough to rest his forehead against Porthos's before cupping his cheeks. "One, *I* can't fuck you any more tonight and still be remotely capable of functioning tomorrow. Two, you want him. Three, I think he *is* worthwhile. Four, I *know* you're capable of sussing the answer to that question out yourself. Five, I want you to have... everything wonderful. Six, I want to *punish* you more, and I know that if you spend two or three more times tonight, you *will* be a bit terrified of sex for the next several days in positively hilarious ways. I... did you think I was... selling you cheaply?" 

"I — I know you *wouldn't* —" 

"But it sounded that way?" 

Porthos shudders. "I — fuck, I don't even know —" 

"Shh. Did it sound that way." 

Porthos... takes a breath. And presses his forehead against Daddy's own. "Yes, Daddy."

"I apologize. I was... too flippant, yes?" 

"I think maybe..." Porthos breathes *deep*. 

Breathes in *Daddy* — 

And reminds himself that Daddy is also his *father*, and his *Captain*, and — everything solid in the world. Everything real and dependable.

"I'm listening, son." 

Just — everything. "I think maybe I — lost you for a second. You know, in my mind." 

Daddy leans in enough to kiss him soft and sweet and *salty* — 

"Mn —" 

"Why don't we go home together tonight, mm? We'll wash up, dress, wander past wherever you've stashed the seminarian, and I'll loom darkly in a corner while you disappoint him terribly." 

Porthos laughs and shivers, imagining being curled up with Daddy and just — 

They can talk *strategy* tonight. 

*Olivier* strategy. 

They can plan their next trip out to the de la Fère manor and — 

And it's not what Daddy wants for him, tonight, so — it's not what *he* wants. 

Not entirely. 

And that's not the only *reason* he doesn't want it — he was *ready* to get to know Aramis just *enough* to fuck him before walking *in* here tonight — and. He's got to say that. 

"Daddy..." 

"No?" And Daddy kisses him again — 

Again — 

"What do you need?"

"My punishment," Porthos says, smiling ruefully. 

And Daddy stiffens for a *moment* — and then cups Porthos's chin again and makes him stare into his eyes. And then he *hums*. "I see." 

"It's a good punishment, all things considered..." And Porthos smiles ruefully. 

"Now that you know, again, that you'll always be mine?" 

Porthos pants once. "Yeah. Yeah, Daddy. *That*." 

Daddy smiles — and then smiles like a bastard again. "I wonder what I'll do to you if it turns out the lovely little preacher —" 

"He is taller than you, Daddy —" 

"— *isn't* worth your cock?" 

"Oh — shit. Uh. Uhh..." 

Daddy laughs hard and steps *back*. "Clothes on, son. Time to wash off the *musk*." 

"Before I make more?" 

"*Exactly*."


	2. Here. You fit *here*.

It's after dark when Porthos finally walks into the teahouse, but he *does* have a good — if completely shite — excuse, and he *didn't* give Aramis an exact time. 

By rights, he shouldn't be feeling like an arse. 

The fact that he does anyway — 

The fact that a part of him is *hoping* that Aramis had given up on him instead of sitting here just *waiting* — 

But. 

He's there, in the back, nursing a cup of tea, by the looks of it, and — oh. 

He's *reading*. 

Which, all right, score one for *scholars*, but *reading*? 

In a *teahouse*? 

Where just *anything* can spill on the book? 

Daddy hadn't *said* he was independently wealthy, but maybe? 

Well, at least he hadn't been bored. Porthos cuts through the dinner-crush and makes his way to Aramis's table, utterly unsurprised to see that Aramis marks him before he's even halfway there — 

And right back to feeling like a heel when Aramis smiles at him, bright and wide and boyish. 

He sets the book aside — no marker, gentle with it, respectful — 

And he turns to look at the book when he sees that Porthos is looking at it. He picks it up again, smiles ruefully, and offers it to Porthos as he sits down. 

Porthos takes it — just as gently and respectfully — and — 

It is *absolutely* a copy of the book of Moorish battle tactics Porthos was reading a month ago, but — not the same copy the garrison has. 

There are no candlewax stains marking the chapter on battle formations, and — 

"You could ask," Aramis says, quietly. Shyly, Porthos would wager. 

"I *could*," Porthos says, and sets the book down again.

"But you won't?" 

"No, I will," Porthos says, and grins ruefully. "I'm just going to apologize first." 

Aramis colours a little bit. "You did *tell* me the Captain would be... upset. And *I* apologize —" 

"I *could've* just ignored you and went on my way — the way I was supposed to —" 

"Could you have?" And that shy look turns shrewd again, just that fast. 

Porthos's rueful smile gets... ruefuller. He can feel it happening. "Probably not, no —" 

"Then you will not apologize," Aramis says, and folds his hands together on the table. "I knew perfectly well that I was delaying you —" 

"Aramis —" 

"I was doing everything in my *power* to delay you —" 

"A man ought to take responsibility for his *own* actions," Porthos says, and *looks* at Aramis. 

"We are agreed on this," Aramis says, and smiles. "You will take responsibility for calming and cheering the anxious and somewhat *needy* recruit — 

Porthos *coughs* — "*Aramis* —" 

"And I will take responsibility —" 

"Stop. Just — no," Porthos says, smiling and shaking his head. "I see what you're doing, and you're being very clever and attractive about it —" 

"But..." And Aramis cocks his head to the side. "It displeases you. Why is this?" 

"Well, it's like I said —" 

"You do not want *any*... excuses. Not for yourself." 

"*Exactly*. That's not — you get into bad habits that way. To say the *least*." 

Aramis nods once. "Very well, friend Porthos," Aramis says, and sips his tea, and calls for the — busy — maid when her gaze passes over them. "I will make no excuses for you. You are a terrible friend for being a dutiful, obedient son and a good soldier —" 

Porthos laughs *hard*. "All *right*, you've made your point —"

Aramis beams, looking young again, looking — 

"So is that how you looked with your fellow students? All young and happy?" 

Aramis's jaw drops and he blinks — 

And blinks more — 

And blinks *more* — 

"Or... not?" 

And then Aramis laughs *painfully*, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting his hand hide much of his face, and — 

It's a bit of a horrible sound, despite having some music to it. "Right, so I'm going to apologize for making you laugh like that, and —"

"Porthos..." 

"Yeah?" 

And Aramis drops his hand and smiles *wryly* at him, years coming back all in a rush. 

"I'm listening, mate." 

"I think, perhaps... ah." 

"Yeah?" 

Aramis shakes his head like maybe that's not how he wanted to start that sentence. And then he says, "Perhaps if I had laughed more in seminary, I wouldn't have spent my last two years there alternately plotting my escape and berating myself for... well. That's not important —" 

"Are you sure about that?" 

Aramis gives him a wide-eyed look — 

And then a *pained* look — 

"I..." 

"So... I'm guessing that I opened a door to a whole *attic* full of painful memories?" 

Aramis coughs a laugh — "I apologize —" 

"For what?" 

Aramis blinks — and licks his lips. "For... not being entertaining?"

"Mm. And I should just let you do that?" 

"I... yes?" 

Porthos pooches his face up in an exaggerated scowl and shakes his head. 

Aramis coughs *another* laugh. "No...? Hm. All right," he says, and smiles much more brightly. 

Porthos grins. "*That's* right. We uh. I think we might be a *touch* awkward around each other, at first." 

"I... am not accustomed to that." 

"No?" 

"Oh, God —" 

"I mean, I'm not, either, but —" 

"But — you think we must... flounder around each other?" 

"You don't ever find yourself doing that with people you like just a *touch* more than other people?" And Porthos taps the book lightly with his index finger. 

Aramis... well, that's definitely a blush. He looks down. "I did, in fact, see you reading this book a few weeks ago."

Porthos grins. "Looking to learn my secrets, are you? Why didn't you get the garrison copy? Not like too many of the men go looking for *that* one." 

"I..." That blush gets deeper. 

"Now *that* looks fascinating," Porthos says, grinning and leaning in close. "Tell me, eh?" 

Aramis looks up — and parts his soft-looking lips — 

And Porthos's exceedingly well-used prick gives a nod to the proceedings. Just — wait, no — "Aramis?" 

"I didn't... want to be obvious," Aramis says, and his expression quirks *hard*. 

"Uh. About what?" 

And then Aramis raises an *eyebrow* — 

And Porthos gets it — a bit. 

Maybe. 

Sort of — "Right, but —" 

"I was... brazen, earlier?" 

"*Yes*." 

"And you liked that." 

"A *lot* —" 

"Then it is what you will *have* of me, friend Porthos —" 

"Wait, no —" 

"But..." And Aramis gives Porthos his own rueful smile. "I am often much more cautious." 

"Are you?" 

Aramis nods once. 

"Then — do that." 

"Why?" 

"Because it's *you*." 

"But the alternative gives me *you*." 

"Look, I'm still going to be right here —" 

"If I am cautious?" 

"Yes —" 

"If I am secretive?" 

"I — what —" 

"If I am... coy?" 

Porthos frowns.

Aramis smiles sharply. "Porthos is a blunt, honest, straightforward man." 

"And Aramis isn't?" 

Aramis shrugs lightly. "Aramis has spent much time *buried* in the *bowels* of the Church, friend Porthos. Many truths can be found there, but not without a great deal of dedicated searching... while, of course, looking as though one is doing anything *but* searching for those particular truths." 

Porthos frowns harder — 

"So. From this I know your father didn't tell you *many* things about why I left the Church. He is an honourable man." 

"Of course he is. He told me that you'd been a seminarian, that you *had* reasons for changing your name and your life that he couldn't tell me, and he left it there." And Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Did you expect him not to?" 

Aramis looks at his tea, and nothing else. "I do not expect honour from many." 

"Or any?" 

Aramis's face is shadowed this way, but Porthos can still see the corners of his smile. 

The edges of it. 

"I could say something else, in this moment, about the Church... but I do not wish to be repetitive." 

"Or heretical?" 

Aramis blinks — Porthos can see those long lashes moving — and *then* looks up. "Are you —" 

And then the maid — it's Amélie tonight — is finally at their table, and Porthos has a decision to make — 

No, he doesn't. 

At all. "Come on, settle up, mate. We've a hostler to get to before it gets any later." 

Aramis gives him a long and kind of *burning* look — 

So, Porthos grins. "I want to see that inn of yours."

"They... the wine is very —" And Aramis shakes his head once and pays Amélie, tipping her well by the looks of it — 

Giving her one *hell* of a smile to go *with* the tip, warm and just a little promising — 

It'll be devastating once he has his leathers and the hat to top them off — 

As it is, it's enough to get a giggle out of Amélie, despite how tired and overworked she is, and Porthos can't help but appreciate *that*. 

He tips his own hat to her and gives her a wink — and they both get a lovely little flash of her ankles and calves as she twirls her skirts on her way off. 

Aramis hums with pleasure as they stand — 

And Porthos gets close enough to rest a hand on his back as they walk out. "So you do like the ladies." 

"Very, *very* much." 

"Ever like to share...?" 

Aramis blushes *hard*. "You mean — two men and one woman...?" 

"Absolutely. Or more. Or some other combination —" 

"You have done this?" 

"I *really* have," Porthos says, and grins. "I *love* it." 

"Oh. I can't truly..." 

"Imagine it? It's sodding fantastic." 

"I do not *doubt* you, friend Porthos," Aramis says, pushing open the door to the teahouse and leading them out into the street. "It's only that... ah. I've never had an opportunity for anything quite like... ah. That," Aramis says, and now he's almost dark in the moonlight with his flush. It's...

It's damned *endearing*, is what it is. And Porthos is absolutely going to push this. "No? Not even with, say, two ladies of custom?" 

"Ladies of — oh. Oh. That is a remarkably useful and beautiful and *respectful* phrase!" 

"You spend a lot of time *around* ladies — and gentlemen — of custom, you *learn* respect," Porthos says, just kind of floating that out there. 

"Oh, of course! My book — well, that's just it! It was *not* mine, at first. I befriended the proprietress of a certain *house* of custom, shall we say —" 

"We *shall*," Porthos says, and grins — 

"— and she has allowed me to *peruse* her personal library —" 

"She has a *library*?" 

"Oh, yes, friend Porthos. Madame Angel, she has done quite well for herself." 

Porthos blinks and runs through his personal list, but — no. Hunh. "What kind of punters does her house take in?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "Ones with rather more money than I usually have. I fear I spend far more time in her library than in the other rooms." 

Porthos laughs and claps him on the shoulder. "We've all been there, mate. But uh...?"

"Mm?" 

"I don't think she caters to the gentry, like?" 

"Oh! No, not that I have seen, friend Porthos. Perhaps more the wealthier merchants." 

"Ah, got it. That's why I don't know her." 

"Yes?" 

"Yeah. I keep an eye on the ladies and gents of that trade as much as I can — which *isn't* much at all, really — but I'm infinitely more familiar with the houses that are a *lot* more downmarket than that —" 

"And a lot more *upmarket*," Aramis says. "Yes, I see," he says, and gives Porthos another shrewd look. "You've been given a unique opportunity to observe and study French society, friend Porthos." 

"Spoken like a scholar *indeed*." 

"I — suppose it was, at that —" 

"*Also* spoken like someone who has *definitely* been asking a question or two about my background." 

"One or two or twenty-three, yes," Aramis says, and colours again. 

Porthos grins and claps Aramis's shoulder again. "I like it. *Get* to know me. Just ask *me* the questions, too." 

"As you say —" 

"But you had another question — wait," Porthos says, and leads them into the hostler's. The man himself — Guy — is definitely ready to fuck off for the night, by the look of him — his shift-relief must be late. 

Porthos makes his tones nice and soothing and kind — as much for Guy as for the horses — and tells the man what he needs, watching the man relax for it just the way he should. Still — 

"Monsieur, why did you not take your fine black from the garrison? Is Yves unwell? The boys there, they are caring for him well, are they not?" 

"Aw, Yves is perfect, don't you worry, Guy. The boys love him up just the way he likes. I'm just heading out with Aramis tonight, who's one of our recruits, and I didn't care to be mounted while he walked." 

Guy smiles and nods. "Of course you didn't. I don't care what anyone says, you'll never lose the common touch." 

And that — well, Porthos doesn't let the smile freeze on his face. Daddy's training has been much too good for that. "Absolutely *not*," he says, and claps Guy's arm. "I'm not one for getting too big for my breeches, no matter what name I wear, eh?" 

"That what I say, Monsieur Porthos," Guy says, quiet for the horses. "Some of these men, though..." 

"Eh? Did I offend someone? Tell the *story*, Guy. I've got to keep my name good on these streets." 

"Oh, it's nothing like *that*, Monsieur Porthos. No one is *insulted*. But Nicolas, you know —" 

"The baker, yeah, I know him. What's got him upset? He makes the best pastries in the quarter!" Not truly, but — 

Guy beams. "I will tell him you said that!" And that actually had some volume to it, which means *Guy* was more upset than he was playing it. So. 

Time for a bit of theater. "I think I know what's wrong," Porthos says, and pulls on his judicious face, conscious of Aramis watching him do it while lying back in the tall grass a little. 

"Oh... oui, Monsieur?" 

"Nicolas heard about that massive order we had to place with Dumont over there for bread and sweets for the garrison last inspection day, I'd wager." 

"Well..." And Guy shrugs weakly.

"Now, now, don't go easy on me, Guy, word gets *round*," Porthos says, and hitches his hands in his belt. "But let me tell you something, man to man," he says, and leans in close enough to breathe in his horsey-smelling hair. 

"Oui, Monsieur?" 

"Dumont's got a better name with the muckety-mucks," Porthos says, and pulls back. 

"Non!" 

"Oui." 

"But..."

Porthos shrugs without moving his hands from his belt. "I don't *know* why, Guy. I just know that the word came down from on high that I *had* to use Dumont from now on when the muckety-mucks were involved in *any* way, and if I know what's *good* for me? I *listen* to that word." 

"Because that word is from —" 

Porthos moves one hand *quickly* — and presses his gloved finger to Guy's thin lips. "Watch that, mate. I'm not so far away from the garrison that I can't be yanked back by the scruff, eh?" 

And Guy's eyes go wide. 

Porthos nods and moves his hand back to his belt. "So, that's the long and short of it." 

Guy nods slowly, still wide-eyed. "Do... is there anything Nicolas can *do*?" 

Not burning half his croissants would be a start. "I just don't know, Guy. But I've got my ear to the ground, eh?" 

"Oui, Monsieur!" 

"I'll let you — or Nicolas — know if I hear anything." 

"Of course you will," Guy says, obviously much happier.

He rents them a bay — Confiance — and a black — Bravoure — who are clearly his best, spirited and well-muscled and healthy. 

Aramis, who is clearly *delighted* with the horses, takes Confiance — a mare — and immediately begins cooing and crooning to her in a blend of Latin and French — 

In this *hot* little *purr* — 

Bravoure is nosing right on over for some of *that* — 

Porthos can't *blame* him — 

Right, no. Porthos settles up with Guy, painfully aware that this is one of those times when he's supposed to be the Visiting Gentry Gracing Guy With His Custom — and thus not bloody *tipping* — 

He *hates* that — 

He hates how often he has to *do* it — 

He does it anyway, because he's had two years of this, and he's *watched* merchants be honestly insulted and even scared by his tips — like people are going to look at their business as the next one to get raided and have their licenses revoked because the merchant wasn't smart enough not to give *considerations* to the stupid noble blundering through. 

So. 

He *just* pays enough to rent two horses — two horses of not nearly as fine quality as Confiance and Bravoure — and then Guy leaves them to get their horses used to them. 

"So, what is the real reason Nicolas has lost the garrison's custom...?" 

"As an aside, anytime you want my attention," Porthos rumbles, low and slow, as he strokes and gentles Bravoure, "you can just purr like that." 

Aramis grins. "Are you a horse for me to gentle to my touch?" 

"Absolutely not," Porthos says. "Except for some parts." 

Aramis laughs softly, gently for the horses' sake. "Will you tell me..?" 

"Oh, yeah. Nicolas just isn't as good as Dumont. The Captain got sick of burnt bits on his croissants." 

"So simple?" 

"Mm-hm." 

"And yet you must... perform?"

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "It's that much of a surprise?" 

"I... am still growing accustomed to the ways of cities," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. 

Country boy. Porthos nods slowly and mounts up, hiding his joyful little wince.

Aramis does the same, nimble and smooth — 

They head out of the hostler's and out onto the dark streets — 

And Porthos thinks about how he's going to say — no. No, he's got it. "It's like this." 

"Yes?" 

"See, everything is at least a *little* theatrical in Paris, because at the bottom of everyone's purse, helping the purse keep its *shape*, is pride. You know some about it, because you're a grown man in this world, and you can't *not*." 

"Of course." 

"But there's the pride of just being a grown man, and then there's the pride of being a grown man in Paris, where everyone is judging everyone based on every item of clothing you're wearing, and what perfume you are or are *not* wearing, and what your mother was wearing last *week*, and what teahouse your uncle was drinking at last *month* — is this sinking in?" 

Aramis winces. "I... yes. I *had* noticed this, but..." 

"You've no connections here, I'd wager." 

"No, Porthos, I do not." 

Porthos nods. "It makes a difference. When you're not constantly watching your back and also the backs of your entire family and also all your friends and *their* families, it's easy to forget that everyone else is doing that." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. "And so... theater becomes part of the necessary social fabric." 

Porthos grunts. "I like that, yeah. 'cause if you take it *away*, then at least *one* person's privates are swinging in the breeze, and there are a limited number of soirées where that's *advisable*, much less *acceptable*." 

Aramis grins at him. 

Porthos grins back, and — they just look at each other for long moments as they ride. They... 

And Aramis's expression is open, honest — hungry and happy at *once* — 

Porthos wants to annoy the *hell* out of their horses — no. No. "So, you had a question —" 

"Oh —" Aramis blinks. "Oh, yes — but first, I wanted to say that I am not so disrespectful to books as to risk them being damaged in busy teahouses. I did see that look on your face." 

Porthos gives him a *look*. 

"I mean this thing! I had no *idea* the teahouse would grow so *busy*." 

"It's by the *garrison*." 

"Precisely. It's a *teahouse*, and I had checked before today — they are not known for the quality or variety of their ales, and they serve no wines or spirits, at all!" 

Porthos lets his expression quirk *precisely* the way it wants to. "You do realize we drink non-alcoholic things *sometimes*, don't you?" 

"*Now* I do!" 

Porthos splutters. "Aramis." 

Aramis grins more, shaking his head and scanning their perimeter *quite* nicely. He even lingers just the way he should on the pickpocket, making sure she doesn't do anything worse to her mark. "No, truly, I did not know the teahouse would take such *rowdy* custom. I would've tucked my book away soon whether or not you arrived." 

"And kept waiting?" 

Aramis turns back to him. "Yes," he says, low and simple and honest. 

Porthos licks his lips. "I'm glad." 

"As am I, friend Porthos." 

"So..." 

"I wanted to know if you were a religious man. You are... very interested in my scholarly past. Perhaps scandalized by it?" And that's a *worried* look. 

"Like maybe I want to fuck the hell out of you, but I don't respect you because you left the Church I've so much love and care for?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully and shrugs. "I have heard — and seen — stranger things in this city, friend Porthos." 

And that... is nothing but truth. "The point is yours." 

"Thank you. I don't want it," Aramis says, and laughs — 

Porthos laughs with him. "I'm interested in your scholarly past because I like educated people, as a general rule. Or — no, that's not quite it," Porthos says, reaching up to scratch his beard. 

"No?" 

"Too many educated people are prancing little pillocks with their heads in the clouds — when they don't have them firmly up their own arses." 

"This is clear, objective truth." 

"*You're* not." 

"I try not to be —" 

"And neither are the people I love and respect the most," Porthos says. "So... you give me an honestly good person, and then you add on an education on top of that? A real love of *learning*?" 

Aramis makes a soft sound and straightens, just a bit. 

"Yeah?" 

"No, I... *that* is your favorite sort of person." 

"Absolutely." 

"The Captain — *he* is like that." 

Dangerous ground, but — "Yeah, he really is. I could see that... well, right from the beginning." 

"Do you mind if I ask you how the two of you met?" 

Porthos grins. "Now why should I believe you *don't* already have that story from five or six of the other men?" 

"I'd like to have it from you," Aramis says, and *doesn't* colour. "From... your mouth," he says. And then *does* colour. 

Porthos licks his lips — and nods. 

And checks their perimeter — 

And says, "It was a cold bastard of a night. November, you know. It wasn't doing anything at that point, but it had been sleeting all day, and the cobbles were icy. *Cobbles*, 'cause I'd dressed in the nicest clothes I had which were also on the warm side and crept out of the Court of Miracles — do you know...?" 

"Enough to keep myself clear, because of everything I do *not* know." 

"Good enough. That's where I'm from, and I know you already know that, because everyone does, but I'm going to be completist." 

"Thank you for this." 

"And go ahead and ask questions, all right? I'll tell you if I don't want to answer, and I promise not to get on any horses higher than Bravoure here." 

Aramis smiles *softly*. "All right. But I will listen for now, I think. If that is well?" 

"It is, it is," Porthos says, and turns back to the road. "So I'd crept out of the Court and to a nicer part of town. Guild-protected inns and all. I'd been sharping in that neighbourhood — cards and dice were my specialty before the Captain put me on the straight and narrow —" 

"Oh." 

"Didn't hear that part...?" 

"No, Porthos. But please continue!" 

"Hunh. I'm surprised. People usually *love* telling that part. All right, anyway. I'd been sharping for my supper — and the other incidentals like rent and clothes and suchlike — in that neighbourhood, but not doing so well." 

"No? You were not experienced? Or... your targets were *more* experienced?" 

Porthos snorts. "Hardly. I'd make money with one eye shut and the other eye on the *maids*. I'd make money hand over *fist*. I'd make so *much* money that I'd spend more time working my arse off to make sure the marks 'earned' *most* of their money *back* than I did working to make sure I earned in the first place." 

"Oh — but —" 

"Can't take *too* much from any one kitty. 's bad luck, and just plain bad for business." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully again. "Yes, I see! Please, more!"

"Right, then. It wasn't enough to give all their money back." 

"What?" 

"It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to only earn a little and quit. It wasn't enough — nothing was, really. I'd make my money, try to get out, but these arseholes would start fight after fight after *fight*." 

"Oh. *Oh*. And this was not common?" 

"Not a bit of it. When you gamble, you just *are* going to *lose* sometimes. Most men *know* that. But see, when you're a man of color *and* you've got clothes and an accent that mark you as being the lowest of the low classes?" 

"You're not supposed to win, at all, in certain neighbourhoods?" 

"Absolutely *not*. And, to add insult to injury, you're — *I* — definitely wasn't supposed to win the *fights*. So these fucks would fight *harder*, and break up the taverns and inns something *terrible*. It was really a big mess all round.

"So, there I was. It's November, it's colder and darker than the devil's arsehole, and I'm thinking — this is the last time I'm straying outside of where I *belong*." 

"Oh — but —" 

"*But*, the innkeeper of the place I picked didn't even want to let me in the door. He was friends with the innkeeper of one of the places that got busted up right and proper the last time I'd been to the neighbourhood, and he was — rightly — concerned about what would happen *when* I started winning in his common room." 

"But had anyone *caught* you — sharping?" 

"Cheating, you mean?" And Porthos grins just a little meanly. 

"I —" 

"Not at all, Aramis. I was far, far too good for *that*," he says, and winks. "Didn't matter, though. They all knew. And, again, low-class man of color." 

Aramis frowns deeply. "I don't care for this." 

"Neither did I!" And Porthos laughs. "And neither did the Captain, who was *just* Treville to me, then. Well, at first he was just the banty little cock who was — somehow — making the innkeeper piss his breeches just by *looking* at him funny —" 

Aramis *coughs* — 

"Well, we were of a *height*. And *I* was only fifteen or sixteen. *And* Treville kept doing these... heh. These little sodding *flourishes*. You know. The ones we *all* do, because we're a bunch of strutting *peacocks*, but the *Captain* doesn't do, because he's the *Captain*." 

"You... you're not sure what your age was? And wasn't this around the time when the Captain *became* the Captain?" 

"I'm *absolutely* not sure what my age was — or is — because my mum died when I was five, and I didn't even know who my birth father *was* until... well, that's another story. I remember that I *did* know when my birthday was, once upon a time, but I forgot pretty early. And, as a matter of fact, it was about three weeks after the Captain was promoted. He was... doing the opposite of celebrating." And Porthos smiles ruefully. 

"He didn't want the job?" 

"Absolutely *not*. The thing about the Captain is that he's been a soldier since he was a *child*. He didn't get *inducted* into the Army until he was sixteen, but that didn't bloody stop him *before* that point, get me?" 

"Yes, I believe I do. The position of Captain of the King's Musketeers... does not involve a great deal of soldiering." 

"'A pittance', he'll say, and spit. The greatest joy of his existence is —" 

"You?" 

Porthos blushes *hard*, hoping like hell it doesn't show — "Aramis —" 

"You speak with great love for your father, friend Porthos," Aramis says quietly. "Great love, great care, and great *respect*."

"I — of course I do —" 

"I do not think you are the sort of man who would do this thing if that love, care, and respect were not returned." 

"He's my *father*." 

"There are many fathers not worth the name —" 

"What, like *yours*?" 

Aramis is silent for a long moment — "My father — the father of the boy who was once Julián Ortiz — sold that boy to the Church when he proved to be, at last, too much of a disappointment —" 

"Oh — shit — *Aramis* —" 

Aramis holds up a hand — but doesn't look at Porthos. "I don't mean to... I think you are very cautious and protective of the love you have for your father. Of the *life* you have *with* him. I think that my questions, my words in general? I think they must seem threatening, and disrespectful, at least to some extent. I give you my word as a man, as a man who hopes to one day be your *brother*, that I do not mean them this way. I only..." And *then* Aramis looks at him, swallowing hard. "I am... a very curious man. I was a very curious boy once..." Aramis smiles ruefully, and shrugs. "I have not grown out of very many things, ultimately. One of the few is... is my love and respect for my father, who knew absolutely everything about why I did not wish the life of a seminarian, and still forced me into it, and thus forced me to *steal* from him and from the Church by running away from both so that I could finally, finally begin the process of growing into the man I need to be.

"I... I am curious about you and your father. I couldn't help but find myself drawn to the Captain, who is a kind and warm and educated man behind *his* gruff theater. 

"And... you know precisely how much, how deeply, I am drawn to you. Beyond that... 

"Beyond that is the fact that the two of you present the Captain as the harshest of disciplinarians — as I believe you must for the sake of *military* discipline! — but, at the same time, when you are the slightest bit free and open, your love for him pours forth like water from a *fountain*. And I wonder... I wonder if, perhaps, I have thrown something very valuable away with my own love for my father. 

"I wonder if I missed great, shining jewels in the heaping masses of — of *trash*..." And Aramis's voice has grown... small. 

"Aramis..." 

His firms his mouth into a hard line for a moment — "I apologize, friend Porthos," he says, to the back of Confiance's neck. "You have asked for none of this —" 

"I would've eventually, though." 

Aramis takes a breath — and looks at him again. *Searches* him. 

Porthos leaves himself open for it. And just — "I... I don't think you threw anything valuable away, mate." 

"No? I... have told you very little." 

"You told me he disrespected your deepest wishes and sold you for coin." 

"Ah. Well... yes." 

Porthos smiles wryly. "That's rather a *lot*." 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "Well... yes. Your father would never... he would never." 

"No. He wouldn't. Not ever." 

"*That* is the truth of his discipline." 

"Exactly. But you can't — you can't ever *use* that, or *abuse* that —" 

"I will *not*. I want — I want to be a Musketeer so *badly*! I never met Musketeers when I was a boy, but all had heard of them. So brave, so bold. So strong and fierce and *attractive*." 

Porthos *looks* at Aramis. 

Aramis *laughs* ruefully. "When the soldiers would ride through our little town from time to time, I was the first at the inn to offer what assistance I could." 

"'Assistance'...?" 

Aramis clears his throat. "The life of a soldier, it is a hard and lonely one, is it not?" 

"Oh my — how *old* were you?" 

Aramis's laugh, this time, is happier. "Eleven, the first time I wriggled onto an old campaigner's lap and he let me stay there, in the darkest corner of the inn, while he drank wine and told stories about war — and then much brighter things —" 

"And warmer things?" 

"Yes —" 

"And *softer* things?" 

Aramis laughs more — "Oh, yes!" 

"And *harder* things?" 

"Especially the thing I was sitting on." 

"You dirty little boy," Porthos says, laughing hard. "Did you...?" 

"Guillaume asked me very nicely if I'd liked to have my cock rubbed, and, to be perfectly honest, by that point I would have agreed to him doing it with sandpaper —" 

Porthos *splutters*, making Bravoure's ears twitch in annoyance — 

"*Happily*, he *only* used his fingers. His *softest* fingers on my softest skin, as he said, and then, after, he let me feel his hard calluses on my thighs and I was *immediately* ready for more." 

"And did you *have* more?"

Aramis grins. "*Oh*, yes. I did not *spend*, yet, at that age, you see. Guillaume tossed me off four times —" 

Porthos splutters more — 

"And spent in his *trousers* from all of my wriggling —" 

"That is... well. *Well*." 

"And then, when I went home — flushed and limping and even *more* ready to run off to join the Army immediately..." 

"Oh... damn. Your father." 

"My father was most displeased by the reports of his eleven-year-old son sitting on the laps of old soldiers — even though he never did get the *whole* story, somehow; I do believe many blessings rained down on me that day — and I was three *hours* late, besides. So. He sent me to *school* — not seminary — very early that year, and I was alone with the priests for... entirely too long," Aramis says, and sighs. 

"*That* doesn't sound good." 

"Priests are rarely as kind and gentle and polite as old soldiers, in my experience," Aramis says, and smiles wryly. 

"I *want* to say something to that. I *really* do." 

"But you know that I am right?" 

Porthos sighs. "I have to deal with a lot of Church *fathers* when I'm at events with the Captain. They're bloody worthless to a man, really — though most of them are brilliant and cagey." 

Aramis nods and reaches up — he's toying with that rosary of his. "My father, he dreamed of a bishop in the family." 

"Did he, then." 

"Mm. I dreamed, always, of honour, brotherhood, duty, service, glory, excitement, bloodshed... sometimes the order of these things shuffled. Always they were — are — the same." 

"I'm glad you made it to us," Porthos says, and grins at Aramis. 

Aramis smiles back, and ducks his head. "I am even more glad about this than I was this morning."

"My father..." And Porthos licks his lips. 

"Yes, friend Porthos?" 

"I — he thinks you're worth it, is all." Me. He thinks you're worth *me*. 

Aramis *grins*. "This is so? He's only spoken to me *once*." 

"He's not a man who needs much more than that." 

"No, I... the other men say that the two of you had dinner that cold night in November —" 

"He bought me a *lovely* meal," Porthos says, and laughs at the memory of the sparkling Carcasonne wine. 

"They say that, by the end of it, he had invited you to become a Musketeer, and that, by the time the two of you finished talking that night, he had asked you to become his *son*." 

"Well, he hadn't formally asked to *adopt* me, and obviously I hadn't *agreed*, but... yeah. We understood each other." 

"Then, perhaps, *you* are not a man who needs much more than one conversation...?" 

Porthos opens his mouth — and blushes. And grins. "No, not much. But that doesn't mean I don't want it." 

"From your father?" 

Well, this is rapidly becoming a dangerous conversation — no. It's only dangerous if he lets it be. "Well... yeah. He's my closest friend in a lot of ways." 

Aramis makes another of those small noises. 

"Mm?" 

"No, I... are you *his* closest friend?" 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and sighs. 

"You are not happy about this?" 

"He was at that inn *that* night because he was grieving, because the last really close friend he'd had — the last person he'd known from when he was a boy — had just died. That would be the *prior* Captain, and the prior Comte de la Fère." 

"Oh — *oh*." 

"Yeah? That bit of intelligence means something?" 

Aramis blushes again. "I — oh, this turn —" 

"Got it," Porthos says, and guides Bravoure with his knees. Once they're off the main thoroughfare, the streets empty *quickly* — and, of course, get that much more dangerous. Though not generally for sober, armed, and mounted men. Still, they keep an eye out. And that — "Who taught you how to keep a weather eye, mm?" 

"My fourth stolen purse was an *excellent* teacher, as was my empty belly that week," Aramis says, and grins at him brightly, youthfully — 

Porthos laughs. "Right. But I see the way you're looking — I can tell you'd pick up on more than just the thieves." 

"Ah, well. I was a curious and *frightened* boy when I arrived in Paris, and also a paranoid one — I was honestly afraid that the Church would try to track me down and take me back! I studied everyone and every*thing*, at first, and learned to mark those who meant harm to their targets soon enough," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully again. 

"Fair enough. And the de la Fère family?" 

Aramis hums and looks down and Confiance's neck again. It's a bit too close on this street for enough moonlight to get through to show how *much* Aramis is colouring, but he *is* colouring again. 

"Yes...?" 

"I may have asked the older men some few questions about the Captain, and his past." 

"Oh, *did* you, now." 

"I wanted to know more about the *kind* of man he was —" 

"More than you could find out just by *speaking* with him?" 

"He has, I say again, only spoken to me *once* —" 

"All right, all right," Porthos says, laughing and shaking his head. "I'm being protective again." 

"Even your father's life before you were in it means a great deal to you," Aramis says, quiet and low and — full. 

"'course it does. It's what made him who he is. And — well, you *did* find out that Laurent d'Achille de la Fère was his *brother*, right? Not just —" 

"Not only his Captain, not only his superior officer, and not only his brother-in-arms. His *brother*, yes, along with men named Kitos and Reynard." 

"You got a *lot*. You charmed the life out of *someone* — no. It was Benoit, wasn't it?" 

Aramis makes a worried noise. "Please don't punish him —" 

"Oh, I won't." 

Aramis opens his *mouth* — 

"*And* the Captain won't, either. We'll both just be a bit rueful about things," Porthos says, and shakes his head. 

"These things you will be rueful about... they are very private and meaningful," Aramis says, and his voice is low and small. Wrong. 

*Wrong* — and Porthos knows why. "Aw — no, Aramis, 's not — well, all right, they *are* private and meaningful, but you had no way of knowing that, and neither did Benoit, really." 

"Please do not make excuses for my poor behaviour —" 

"I'm not, because now you *do* know, and you'll come to me or the Captain when you have questions like that, and we'll *tell* you — or tell you that we *can't* tell you. Right?"

"*Yes*, of *course* —" 

"So, there you are." 

"Oh — Porthos. I already *have* more questions —" 

"Ask 'em." 

"But. Are you *certain*?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I'd rather know what you're thinking, mate." 

Aramis winces. "Yes. Yes, I suppose —" 

"But — no, that's not the whole of it. Shit, I don't want you thinking I'm mad at you, or wary of you, or anything like that —" 

"It would be *reasonable* for you to be both of these things —" 

"Well, I'm not always the most reasonable of men, now am I?" And Porthos *looks* at Aramis. 

And Aramis looks back, searching him — 

Licking his soft-looking lips — 

*Studying* him, and Porthos is *willing* Aramis to trust him, but — 

He can do a little better than that, can't he? "Look, I... here it is," Porthos says, and gives their perimeter a scan — 

Aramis does the same — "I am listening, Porthos —" 

"I *really* like 'friend Porthos', by the way," he says, and follows Aramis down yet another dark street. 

"Oh — I. Truly?" 

"Aye." 

Aramis licks his lips again and *glances* at Porthos before turning back to scanning their surroundings. "Would you tell me why?"

"Well, it ties into this, actually. All of this. I already told you my father is my closest friend, but I don't think I really..." Porthos shakes his head. "He's probably my one *true* friend, Aramis." 

"Oh — *no*!" 

"Yes. A few of the men have made overtures of deeper friendship, and most of them are *very* good blokes, but..." 

"They... do not value education highly enough?" 

"That's one problem. Another — bigger — one, at least sometimes, is the *discipline* problem we already discussed." 

Aramis inhales sharply. "It... the secret you keep for and with your father in order to maintain discipline..." 

"You can't build true friendship on lies. You just bloody can't." 

"Oh. *No*. You *cannot*, and — I am honoured that you have *chosen* me —" 

"You chose me first, eh? Watching and waiting and *studying*. *Learning*. Getting to see if I were really *worth* it." 

"You *are*. In every *way*." 

"And so are *you*, by everything I've seen —" 

"Oh... Porthos." 

"So, when you call me friend... I feel a little less alone."

And there's a *hard* silence for a long moment, a *deep* one — 

"Aramis?" 

— until Aramis takes a shuddering breath. "I... I confess that I am leading you toward my *rooms* — please *let* me —" 

"Oh. Aramis...." 

"It is *foolish*, I know, but I have wine there, and good chairs we can sit on if you do not wish —" 

"Oh, I *wish*, all right." 

Aramis grunts. "Porthos —" 

"I — uh. I still want to talk to you more." 

"Yes, yes, of course —" 

"'s not really an 'of course'. I mean, most people I know this much about and like this much — well, no, everyone like that, I've already done everything I *could* to talk them into bed —" 

"You need do *nothing* —" 

"Easy, wait, all right?" 

Aramis *grips* his reins — but doesn't tug on them one bit. Confiance's ears twitch, but she doesn't get any more annoyed than that. Aramis really is a *good* horseman, and — 

And, yeah. All of it. "Everything about you makes me want you." 

"Porthos..." 

"It's just that everything about you *also* makes me want *more* of you." 

"Please, friend Porthos, you can have — ask whatever you *wish* —" 

"Anything?" 

"I may... have a difficult time answering some things, but that does not mean that I don't want you to *know* them." 

Porthos licks his own lips and feels something crumbling within him, something that *had* been tight and binding and — "Let's. Let's be friends, eh?" 

"Oh. Yes?" 

"Please." 

"Oh, Porthos, you need not ever plead for this —" 

"Then I'll just be appreciative whenever and however I get it. How's that?" 

Aramis moans and darkens with flush again — 

Or is that blush? 

Porthos wants to reach out and *touch* — but there are other things to do first. "So." 

"I — yes? Please *ask* me things —" 

"How d'you make your money?" 

"I am a guard," Aramis says. "Madame Angel uses my services on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Sundays, and, so long as I restrain myself from giving her generous pay right *back* to her for the chance to spend an hour or three with her ladies..." And Aramis shrugs. 

"*Very* nice," Porthos says, and laughs. "I did some of that work myself, once. 's a nice, *satisfying* job." 

"Yes, it is! There is *nothing* quite like slashing the throat of a man who has been unconscionably rude to a woman who is merely doing her *job*." 

"Uh." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos turns to *look* at Aramis. 

"Yes, Porthos? What is it?" And — his eyes are wide, his expression is merely *curious* —

"Right, so, when you say 'rude'..." 

Aramis growls. "Some of these men, they treat the women like property. And while I did not understand this when I was a boy, I have met former slaves since I have been in Paris. No man — or woman, or child — should *ever* be thus." 

"Too bloody *right*, but —" 

"Men, we can agree, when they feel that they own some*thing*, they also feel they can do anything *to* that thing, yes?" 

"So, you've been murdering the tossers who got violent?" 

"Oh, yes!" 

Porthos takes a breath — 

"And, of course, the ones who were clearly about to *become* violent." 

The breath lodges in Porthos's throat like a hunk of stale *bread* — 

"Porthos? Are you well?" 

Porthos coughs into his fist, a little, and tries again. Just — 

But Aramis *had* listed *bloodshed* as one of his life goals — 

One of the things he'd *wanted* out of life — 

"I... I know I've said something very wrong to you —" 

"No!" 

"Porthos." 

Porthos — blushes. "Okay, um. 's just that I usually kept myself to beating the living hell out of people, you know, giving them a few permanent *injuries* —" 

"Death is a very permanent injury, friend Porthos." 

Porthos coughs a *laugh* — 

And Aramis gives him a smile that's sharp even in the moonlit *gloom*. "I am, perhaps, a trifle bloodthirsty for friend Porthos's tastes?" 

"I — uh." And Porthos laughs more. "Where'd you even *learn* knives, eh? The Captain told me you're a *salon* *fencer*." 

Aramis colours again. "I — of course he could tell —" 

"He's been doing this for a quarter of a *century*, mate. He knew by the way you walked into his *office*." 

"Oh — God. Perhaps... perhaps you will tell me how I can improve —" 

"I'll help you. I'll help you with all of it, eh?" 

"Oh — Porthos, you don't —" 

"Have to? I know *that*. But, like I said earlier, you're going to be the best long-gunner we *have*. I want that to happen as soon as bloody *possible*." And I want — "And I want to spend more time with you." 

Aramis shivers. "I — want that, too. Both of those — all of it." 

"*Good*. So answer —" 

"Men — and women — who know the knife are much easier to find — and much cheaper to pay — than men who know the sword. I learned much from the women in the brothels I frequented." 

"Oh, smart *man*!" 

"I thank you! It was sometimes difficult to get the ladies to *trust* me, but, with time and care... well. And then I could be of better *use* to them —" 

"And earn more money —" 

"And spend more time —" 

"And money," Porthos says, and laughs, looking Aramis up and down. "You are a bit on the lean side... 

"*Porthos*. I eat as *least* as often as I make love." 

Porthos laughs *harder*. "The ladies at Madame Angel's must be *glorious*." 

Aramis moans softly. "She has a dancer whose family is from Kashmir — Noor — and her skin is like smoky *silk*. I cannot afford *more* from her than a dance, but..." 

"A dance is enough?" 

"No!" 

And they laugh *together* — 

"Oh... we are — the hostler closest to my rooms is right by this fountain, friend Porthos," Aramis says, nodding. 

"Yeah? He's a good one?" 

"Oh, yes. While I was training myself in *some* of the arts of war, I hired myself to him as a decidedly overgrown stableboy. I could do the work of two, he could pay me for one and a half — it was a good bargain for both of us." 

"Yeah, eh? You *really* like being around horses." 

"I do. They are noble animals in every way, kind and giving and patient and brave, asking only for our care and basic consideration..." Aramis sighs and strokes Confiance's neck, murmuring and purring in that mix of Latin and French again. 

She steps lively for him — 

He laughs and strokes her more — 

And Bravoure tries to nudge closer to him. 

"Oi, there, Bravoure," Porthos rumbles, "Don't make me jealous now," he says, and urges him back a safe distance away with his knees. 

"You're a strong rider," Aramis says. 

"The Captain taught me just... every trick in the book. Especially once I moved in with him," Porthos says, and laughs quietly. "You know, I honestly believe that at least thirty-forty percent of *why* he wanted me to move in with him — even before the King agreed to the adoption — was so he *could* have me right bloody there *to* teach." 

Aramis takes a quick breath. "He is... a good teacher?" 

"The sodding best," Porthos says, and leads them into the hostler's. "*He'll* say that he can't teach worth a damn, but the truth is that he was one of the lieutenants for a *lot* of years before he was the Captain, and *while* he was tearing up the continent being a Musketeer *and* being groomed to take over for the Comte?" 

"He was also training the men?" 

"Each and every day. You ask the older men who taught them this or that or the other, and you see how many times they say the Captain did, eh?" 

"I... am jealous," Aramis says, and laughs ruefully as they stop — 

He dismounts just as nimbly as he'd mounted — 

"I am *wildly* jealous." 

"Oh — Aramis?" And Porthos dismounts, feeling that jar deep inside that's his body letting him know that he's been on a horse *after* getting thoroughly fucked — 

The jar that means he's going to feel it *tomorrow*, if he's not a little careful — 

Which he *will* be — hopefully — 

But Aramis steps close, and he smells like tea and perfume and the cheap garrison soap, and he's beautiful, and he's —

Looking at Porthos wonderingly. 

"Porthos?" 

"Uh," Porthos says, brilliantly. 

And Aramis grins, bright and wide and boyish again, and Porthos is about to sodding *grab* him right there, but then he turns — "Ah, Emil, good evening —" 

"And to you, fine boy!" And Emil is a small, round man with the most *magnificent* moustache Porthos has seen in hours. It's huge and bushy and black and looks to be at least four and a half inches across, though it's hard to judge with all those curls in. 

His beard is a bit more conservative — a bit — 

He's bald as an *egg* up *top* — 

And Aramis kisses Emil's cheeks and smiles at him. "How is custom?" 

"Very well, very well! There is a bustling new tavern two streets down, very classy, and they send me *much* business," Emil says with a self-satisfied hum. 

"Good! And your boys?" 

"Ah, sleeping like dozy puppies, the lot of them. I will wake them in a few hours, but for now, I let them rest, eh?" 

Aramis grins more. "You are too soft for these mean streets, Emil." 

"I listen to the words of our Saviour, fine boy. There is a *difference*." 

Aramis sighs. "I try to make people understand this thing, but..." 

Emil reaches up to pat Aramis's arms. "One day. One day, fine boy. But who is your Musketeer friend? And who are these beauties? They are from Guy's, are they not?" 

Aramis turns to Porthos. "This is my friend Porthos du Vallon de Tréville —" 

"Oh. *Oh*. Forgive me, sir! I should have recognized..." And, all at once, Emil isn't relaxed and happy anymore. 

*Right*. Porthos pulls on his most gentle smile and laughs *softly*. "Be easy, friend, *easy*. It's *dark*. Who recognizes *anyone* in the dark, eh?" 

Emil laughs a little nervously. "Ah, well, sir, I would hope my wife would have some idea..." 

Porthos makes sure to laugh *well* for that one, and —"I don't know, Emil — you'd best hope one of the stableboys doesn't steal a touch of your perfume," he says, and winks. 

Emil laughs *much* less nervously. "My wife is forty-*seven*, Monsieur!" 

"Ah, well," Aramis says, and spreads his hands. "These boys are far from home, are they not? They miss the warm, soft... arms of their mothers..." 

And *that* gets Emil to *hoot* a little and swat Aramis with the tail of his apron belt. "How did I forget how *terrible* you are?" 

Aramis grins at Emil and then taps his forehead meaningfully. 

"Oh, so disrespectful —" 

"*Not* to worry, Emil," Porthos says, and grins, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "We'll all be teaching Aramis proper military discipline." 

"Oh, I always knew he would do well at anything he set his mind to!" 

"Ah, Emil, you must —" 

"*You* must hush," Emil says to Aramis, and then turns to Porthos. "Monsieur, Aramis here is a *very* fine boy, despite his strange name. He is pious and respectful and kind, and works harder than anyone you will ever meet!" 

And Aramis is blushing *hard* next to Porthos — 

Aramis frankly looks like he wishes a bale of hay would come to life and *swallow* him — 

But. "I and my father both have taken note of Aramis's many good qualities, Emil," Porthos says, being just a bit *officious* about things. "We're going to work him hard, but, in the end, he'll get his due." 

And now Emil honestly looks a bit awestruck — 

Porthos *hates* being The Son Of The Captain —

It's the wrong bloody *way* to be a Treville, and Daddy would agree with that wholeheartedly — 

No, Porthos can't stand this for too long. "But... ah. We do have to get going," Porthos says, and gives a meaningful glance to the moon through the huge open doors. 

"Oh, of *course*, Monsieur! I'll be sure to take good care of your mounts. Do you have any idea when you'll be back to pick them up?" 

Porthos can feel Aramis looking at him, but, more than that, he can feel Aramis *asking* him. 

Maybe pleading, just a little. 

"Tomorrow morning, bright and early," Porthos says, and grins, and doesn't bother to explain himself. He'd known long before he'd met Treville that even the best explanations wound up sounding like weak excuses when they were trotted out too often, even if you'd only given them to a specific person *once*. You'd still trotted then out before *yourself* countless times, and either you'd taught yourself to believe in a lie and made yourself into a pillock — or worse — or you'd made yourself incapable of putting any real *life* in the lie. 

Either way, you were fucked. 

What he'd learned from Daddy... 

("Gentry never explain themselves, son." 

"What, not for anything?" 

"Gentry grow up being taught that everything is theirs for the taking — not even. For the *having*. Explanations are for the little people, the people they *own*, and would get in the *way* of them doing all that having."

"You talk like you're not one of them." 

"My father wasn't one for most of his life, and so didn't know how to play that game, and didn't know how to — or care to — raise *me* to play that game — thank everything holy. Someday, perhaps, *you'll* have children to raise that 'inadequately'.") 

For now... 

For now, he can allow himself to be waved off when he 'graciously' offers to pay to have their rented horses cared for, and he can promise himself to be seen patronizing — or at least hanging *about* — Emil's during the daytime, so he can at least drum up some business for the man. 

Do *something* useful. 

Something — 

Anything. 

They leave, and Porthos lets Aramis lead them. Past the fountain, down the street, round a corner and down through an alley so narrow and dark that it really ought to be *full* of toughs looking to make a quick and violent bit of money — 

"Aramis, why is this alley *clear*?" 

"I killed many criminals to make it so." 

"Uh." 

"I suspect I'll have to kill again soon enough — it is a very tempting thoroughfare for both the unwary and the criminally-minded." 

"Aramis..." 

Aramis laughs quietly. "The Bible, you know, it places a very *firm* distinction between that which is killing — and proper, and necessary — and that which is *murder* — and an offense against God and Christ." 

*Right*. "And so do you?" 

"Is this conversation distracting you from your megrims, friend Porthos?" 

Megrims — Porthos barks a laugh. "As a matter of fact, yes, it is."

"Good," Aramis says, and grins. "It is plain to see that the life of an aristocrat does not agree with Porthos... but it is even more plain to see that the aristocracy *needed* more men *like* Porthos." 

"Aramis." 

"You would disagree with this?" 

"I —" 

"Would your *father*?" 

Porthos shuts his mouth with a *jar* of his teeth — because. "Uh..." 

"Yes?" 

"I'm uh. Not supposed to denigrate myself. At all." 

"Oh. No?" And Aramis sounds *interested*, and — 

Porthos is *blushing* — 

"Your father... he is concerned that you treat yourself with care?" 

Porthos licks his lips as they come out onto a wider and *slightly* brighter thoroughfare — 

"My rooms are in this building here," Aramis says. "I am on the first floor —" 

"Right, all right —" 

"But — the denigration —" 

"I'm uh." Porthos blushes even *more* as they walk into the gloom of Aramis's building — which is well-built and quite clean, considering the neighbourhood — 

"I am listening, friend Porthos." 

"I *really* like that — wait until we're inside?" 

"As you wish," Aramis says, letting them into the rooms at the back of the building, which smell faintly of perfume. 

Aramis lights candles in what turns out to be a spare but *nicely*-decorated sitting room — considering Aramis's probable budget. 

The chairs are old, but they match, and they look comfortable. 

The tables are scratched-up, but good and sturdy-looking. 

The fireplace is clean and obviously functional — and there's plenty of wood right there. 

This — 

Porthos nods approvingly. 

"Yes?"

"You do well for yourself, mate." 

"As I've said, Madame Angel is very generous." 

"Well, you *do* take care of her problems permanent, like." 

"Oh, yes," Aramis says, and smiles a bit sharply — and retrieves the wine and tumblers from the drawer of an armoire that doesn't match anything in the room, but *is* good quality. "This bothers you." 

"I wouldn't —" 

"Be honest about that?" And Aramis smiles even *more* sharply as he pours for both of them and hands Porthos a tumbler. 

"I. All right. I *am* a bit worried by how bloodthirsty you seem to be —" 

And Aramis lets a little wine drip out of the corner of his mouth before licking it away. 

Porthos snorts. "Aramis." 

"All right, yes, I will be serious. I do not care for people who... throw their weight around. I do not care for *bullies*. I have an *eye* for them, because I was once a *small* boy, and I was — nearly — *always* a *pretty* boy. I know their eyes. I know their habits. I know their haunts and I know their *ways*. And? I know how to remove their *stain* from the world." 

Porthos pauses with his wine raised between them — 

Aramis raises an eyebrow — 

"Right, so there are some stories there." 

"There are, yes, but —" 

"One question, and then we can leave those stories right where they are until whenever you feel up to sharing 'em." 

Aramis frowns, sharpness gone just that quickly. "I... if you wish to know —" 

"I do, but only because I want to know *you*. We — I don't need to *hurt* you, Aramis." 

Aramis licks his lips again. "This... this, I already knew about you," he says, and nods, and smiles ruefully. "Please, what is your question?" 

"Did you tell my *father* any of those stories?" 

Aramis blinks — and inhales sharply. "Yes, Porthos. I... some of them have great bearing on why I am no longer Julián Ortiz." 

Porthos nods and drinks. "Thank you." 

"You... if you wish, if it is easier or more convenient, I do not mind you *getting* the stories from your father —" 

"I think I'd rather have them from your mouth," Porthos says, and *looks* at the mouth in question — 

And Aramis winces with *obvious* lust, sets his tumbler down on the table closest to the chairs, and starts to disarm himself. "I — I need —" 

"Yeah, let's," Porthos says, setting his wine down and doing the same. 

There are pegs in the armoire that are perfect for their belts, hooks on the wall that are perfect for their *swords* — 

"You really *were* ready to entertain." 

"Mostly... mostly I was ready to buy more beautiful weapons," Aramis says, and blushes. 

Porthos blinks — and takes a closer look at Aramis's — beautiful — rapier — 

And his sodding *gorgeous* pistol — 

And the arquebusier that's a bloody work of art, even compared to Porthos's pistols, which Daddy — not Treville — had had commissioned by an Italian gunsmith for an *obscene* amount of money. 

Porthos blinks at it. 

A *lot*. 

And Aramis clears his throat and offers it for examination — it's even got a little 'A' on it. Fucking — "How the bloody hell did you —" 

"The 'A' stands for 'Alain'. Well, originally it did. Alain de Romilly *was* a wealthy merchant and the husband of an older woman of my acquaintance —" 

Porthos snorts. "He was a bully?" 

"A very terrible one! Aline —" 

"Alain and Aline? That's a bit precious." 

"Isn't it? Well, not anymore. Aline was most pleased to be rid of him." 

"I'm sure she *was*. Does it shoot as pretty as it — no, 'course it does, I've *seen* you use it." 

Aramis makes a pleased sound. "Maisie here *does* have a tendency to jam after extended usage — she would not be pleased to be put to use for pitched battle —" 

"You — you named your arquebusier —" 

"She is my little love!" 

"Your." 

"Strong and bold and yet so sleek, so beautiful in my hands — and yours, as well, ah, Maisie, such a harlot —" 

"Right, so, one day I'm going to walk in on you cleaning these guns and I'm absolutely going to feel like I walked in on a ménage à trois —" 

"Yes, probably!" 

Porthos laughs hard and sets Maisie *down* — 

And takes his gauntlets and gloves *off* — 

And cups Aramis's gorgeous face with both sweaty hands. "Is this all right?" 

"Oh — fuck. Porthos. Porthos, it is so much better. Please. May I have a kiss?" 

"Yeah. Absolutely. What kinds of kisses do you like, eh? I —" 

"Yours. I like yours." 

Porthos laughs more. "Aramis, you don't —" 

"I do. Please. Show me... show me what you *desire*, friend Porthos. I will be deeply shocked if I have not been fantasizing about that very thing." 

Porthos — growls. And pushes his hands into Aramis's hair, tugging just a little hard. "This?" 

"Please, yes —" 

He pulls Aramis's head *back* — 

"Oh, *yes* —" 

And kissing him is just — 

He has to, he *has* to, because he's right there, because he's something of a madman, because he's beautiful, because he's smart, so *smart*, but still so *good* — 

Because he's bloody everything Porthos has figured *out* that he likes, and a bunch of other things, besides — 

Porthos kisses him *deep*, licking into his mouth and getting a sweet moan, low and deep and *hungry* — 

Aramis licks him back *cautiously* — 

Porthos inhales and nods, plays with Aramis's tongue, coaxes it into his mouth so he can suck it *hard*, take it, *feel* it — 

Aramis groans and grips him by the *hips*, squeezing *hard* — 

Porthos *grunts* for what feels like every last *one* of his bruises just — lighting right *up* — 

Oh. 

Oh — shit — 

Porthos pulls *back* — 

Aramis groans — "N-no? Porthos?" 

"Uh — we need to talk more." 

Aramis licks his lips. "Whatever you wish," he says, breathless and so obviously *hungry* — 

His *beard* is mussed — 

His mouth is — 

Oh, fuck — 

Porthos moves in and kisses him again, again, driving him back against the wall between their swords — 

"Mmph — mmmm..." 

And Aramis doesn't wait to give Porthos his tongue, he slips it right in, he — 

Oh, fuck, he *teases* Porthos with it, tickles the roof of Porthos's *mouth* with it — 

Grunts and *bucks* when Porthos sucks it so *hard* — 

Porthos pulls *back* — 

"Porthos —" 

And Porthos has to bite that chin, grind his beard against Aramis's own — 

"Oh, *Porthos* —" 

"You like that?" 

"I love it!" 

"Have you done it before?" 

"No!" 

"Oh, fuck, this isn't getting us closer to *talking* —" 

"Are we not speaking right —" 

Porthos kisses him again, kisses him *hard*, shoves his own tongue deep and fucks Aramis with it, just fucks him, fast and rough and wet and *raw* — 

Aramis makes a guttural noise and grips Porthos's hips *harder*, *yanking* him in against him — 

Porthos flexes *hard* in his breeches and — 

Feels absolutely everything he was doing just a couple of hours ago. 

Everything he was doing with his *Daddy*. 

Everything — 

You can't build a friendship on lies. 

You can't build *anything* on lies, and, sooner or later — sooner if *this* keeps up — Aramis is going to see the *extremely* obvious bruises and bite-marks all *over* Porthos, and very reasonably wonder exactly whom Porthos has *recently* been fucking. 

Making love with. 

Porthos breaks the kiss and pulls back — all the way back, this time, taking deep breaths and not *looking* at Aramis — 

"You do not care for my... aggressiveness?" 

— until he's got something like his control back, because — no. No. "That's not it," Porthos says. "You can be as aggressive as you like —" 

"To a certain extent?" 

Porthos opens his mouth — and considers. 

And *considers* what Aramis has *quietly* been asking for all night, and asking if Porthos *likes*. 

"I... can be a pushy bloke." 

Aramis shivers. "I've wanted that." 

"But you *haven't* had it?" 

Aramis shakes his head. "Not... not since Julián's old campaigners, traveling through town and helping Julián to misbehave, from time to time." 

Porthos licks his lips and nods. "It's different when you're a boy." 

"Yes. Yes, I think so." 

"Unless..." And Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis clutches at the wall a little bit. "'Unless'...?" 

Porthos reaches for the fasteners on his tunic — and stops. Just stops. 

Just — *stops*. 

"Wait. Wait. I want you so badly I'm sodding aching for it." 

"Yes — please. Please. Have me. Take what you *want*," Aramis says, and his eyes are wide and shining and *black* in the candlelight. 

Something to fall into. 

Something to fall into for... a good, long while. 

Porthos licks his lips. "I have to tell you something first. Something that might... change your mind." 

"There is *nothing* —" 

"Wait," Porthos says, using the hard voice, the Musketeer-voice — 

The voice that damned well pulls Aramis up short. *He* licks his lips. "I am listening, friend Porthos, and I apologize for —" 

"Shh. It's all right. You've every reason to believe, at this point, that I'm a good catch, right?" 

"*Yes*. Please," Aramis says, and then firms his lips together again. 

And — Porthos shouldn't be crowding him like this again — 

Shouldn't be close enough to breathe in that sigh — 

Shouldn't — "Want you..." 

"Take. *Please*." 

"First — you. Do something for me, Aramis." 

"Of course —" 

"Reach up and... tug my collar aside." 

And Aramis reaches up what looks like reflexively, but then stops with his hands on Porthos's collar, *blinking* at him for a moment — and then stopping, just that fast. "There is... a bruise there. Isn't there." 

Oh, Aramis... "Yeah." 

"A... love-bite?" 

"Yeah." 

"From — *not* from a lady — or gentleman — of custom." 

"No, Aramis. From my lover." 

Aramis *stiffens*, all over — but only for a moment. "Your lover... she — he? — is not your friend. You have said —" 

"He *is* my friend. And that's the problem." 

"But." And Aramis swallows what looks like *painfully*, and — 

And Porthos can't, because all this dancing around is making it easier for *him*, but not for *Aramis*. "Aramis... it's my father." 

Aramis blinks *more*, eyes tracking fast as he turns away *slightly* — 

"Ask. Just — ask. 'cause I don't have any idea where to begin, or where to —" 

"Is he. Is he *truly* your father?" And Aramis is looking at him sharply, searchingly — 

Porthos winces, but — "He's everything to me." 

Aramis takes a shuddering breath. "I... do not know if you have told me lies or not, tonight —"

"I haven't." 

"You just haven't been... complete?"

"Right —" 

"He has been your lover from the beginning?" 

Porthos feels himself sweating under his leathers and just — 

This could be — 

But. But. "Aramis... do you understand how much I'm trusting you? How much *he's* *allowing* me to trust you?" 

"Did he *know* that you would seduce me and allow yourself to be seduced *by* me?" 

"Yes," Porthos says, bald and honest. "In part because of the things I told him about our conversation, in part because of *how* I told him those things, in part because he's the bloody Captain, and — in part because he *ordered* me not to hold myself back from you if I found myself desiring you." 

Aramis blinks and draws back slightly. "Do you hold yourself back from —" 

"Everyone. Bloody everyone. But — he had to give that order, Aramis. He — I was champing at the bit for you. I was begging him to *deny* me time with you so I could have an excuse to lose my mind and devour you *whole* whenever he finally took the prohibition *off*. He knew I *wanted* you. That I was... fuck." Porthos smiles ruefully. "I told him myself, you know?"

Aramis frowns and shakes his head, obviously confused. "Told him what?" 

"I told him that I was *compromised* when it came to you. That I couldn't give him proper, objective *answers* to his *questions* about you. That I needed *more* of you." 

"Oh. *Oh*. So *soon*?" 

"We Trevilles *really* don't need much," Porthos says, cupping Aramis's chin again and smoothing his beard — 

Mussing it again — 

Smoothing it again — 

Aramis laughs breathlessly and a little *wildly* — "Tell me more — tell me more about being his son and his *lover*!" 

"What do you —" 

"*Everything*! I. You tell me — and show me! — that your relationship is the model upon which all father-son relationships should be built. You show me mutual love and respect. You show me that he's taught you, and helped you, and cared for you in an uncaring world. You show me that you have given him the same *things* —" 

"I always bloody *will* —" 

"And yet, you are — you commit *incest* — or is it? It *must* be —" 

"It — it sodding *is*. But it didn't start out that way," Porthos says, and rests his forehead against Aramis's without thinking about it — 

"Oh... oh... Porthos." 

"What — shit — sorry —" 

But Aramis clutches him, holds his biceps *tight*. "Please. Stay right here." 

"Aramis —" 

"Friends offer comfort to each other, do they not?" 

Porthos — moans. 

And Aramis swallows with a hard little click. "I would comfort you, and keep you — oh, Porthos —" 

"I went to that inn to sharp. He went to that inn to drink. He saw me about to be tossed out on my arse, and he decided to intervene. In part to be a contrary *bastard* — *he* knew the innkeeper wasn't lying about me being a sharp — but in part to see if he could pick me *up*." 

"*Oh*. But... but wouldn't that have been — *wasn't* that dangerous for a man in his position?" 

"*Yeah*. But he was grieving, see. Grieving for the Comte — for *Laurent*, who he'd been at odds with for years, because Laurent had been grooming him for his *job*. He didn't want anything like that. He didn't — ah, fuck, I'm pretty sure he didn't want to *live* past Laurent's lifespan, and I'm pretty sure picking me up was his first step toward dying relatively young," Porthos says, and shivers hard. 

Aramis wraps his long arms around him and hugs him tight. 

"He was just... amazing. So honest. So — right there. Even when he was *really* fifteen years in the past with his dead mates. He *cried*, right there at the table, silent and just... 

"And the whole time he was flirting with me, and interviewing me for a job, and *reading* me. *Seeing* me.

"I'd never met anyone like that. Anyone who could just take over a whole bloody room despite being so... broken-up inside," Porthos says, and laughs ruefully. "A room. Like he couldn't light up a city with the fire in his heart."

"You made him passionate."

"He said that he'd started to doubt his 'capacity for passion' before he met me, and, well, grief'll do that to anyone, but — look at the lines on his face sometime, Aramis. Look at them and realize that every last one came from how *incredibly* passionate he is about *everything*. He's. 

"He's the ground beneath my sodding *feet*. He's everything solid in my *world*. But he's also more fiery than the bloody sun, and I *love* that. He had me craving it right from the word go, and even though I was just letting him buy me for the night, I was hungry for him. Just — starved. 

"It didn't take long before I was a whole lot more than that, even though I had a lover — a girl — who I didn't just care about, but..." Porthos pulls back — 

And Aramis cups *his* face — 

Aramis *searches* him, wide-eyed and fierce — "You are in love with him." 

"Yeah. Yeah, I am —" 

"You will never leave his *side*." 

"I belong to him —" 

"Does he know this thing? Does he — no, he *must* appreciate this, appreciate *you*, because he does not even let you speak *ill* of yourself. Because the thought of doing so makes you blush and stammer like a boy about to be — punished," Aramis says, and blinks. 

And Porthos smiles wryly. "I've a lot of bruises, mate." 

"Oh. Oh," Aramis says, and blushes *deeply*. "Are you. Are they. Is it —" 

"Now who's stammering?" 

"*Porthos* —" 

Porthos leans in and — absolutely steals a kiss — 

"*Mm* —" 

And another, and another — 

Aramis turns away from him. He — 

Porthos's gut clenches as he stares at Aramis's flushed cheek. "No?" 

Aramis pants — 

And pants — 

And turns back to face him, lips parted and eyes — wounded a little, inside. "Porthos. I. I *cannot* say no to you —" 

Porthos growls and leans back in and — no. This is *not* when he runs Aramis *over* like some madman of a carter. He stops, and kisses Aramis's *cheek*, and leans back — 

Aramis *shudders* — 

"You need us to talk as much as I do. Right?" 

"Please. *Please*," Aramis says, and pushes his long, slim fingers into Porthos's hair for a moment — 

*Grips* for a moment — 

And then hisses between his teeth and tugs his hands *back*, *away* — 

"Oi —" 

"Porthos, Porthos, I — what. I've been trying to think about what I need to know from you, what I need to *understand* —" 

"Everything?" 

Aramis gasps laughter — "*Yes*. *That*. Porthos, does your father, does he —" 

"He hurts me. When I want him to." 

"And — only then?" 

Porthos nods once. "He'd never..." Porthos shakes his head. "He doesn't always double- and triple-check these days, but that's just 'cause he knows me, and my moods, and what I like *when*." 

Aramis *pants* more — "And. He knows you do not *always* like to be hurt." 

"Exactly," Porthos says, and reaches up to stroke Aramis's cheek with one finger. 

"Oh..." 

"Just like you, yeah?" 

"I." 

"You don't *always* like to be hurt. Right?" 

"No. No. I —" 

"But sometimes?" 

"Yes, Porthos," Aramis says, eyes wide and black again, so — 

"You're sodding gorgeous." 

"I..." 

"C'mon, ask more questions." 

"Are you... hungry?" 

"I want to eat you alive." 

Aramis winces with *deep* lust — "I meant — I *meant* —" 

"I grabbed a bite from the mess before I left," Porthos says, cupping Aramis's face with one hand and his hip with the other. "I want. I want to be good, here." 

Another gasp of a laugh — "You've made an excellent start —" 

"You know what I mean. I want to be good *to* you. *For* you." 

"You are — oh, you are —" 

"Aramis, let us — I want you in my life. I want — there's nothing *only* about a friend, but I still think we can have more —"

"Please — oh, please, Porthos, do not make me wait any —" 

And Porthos is growling into Aramis's mouth, Porthos is yanking at his shirt, trying to get it out of his trousers — 

Porthos is pushing his hands up *under* that shirt and touching, feeling, stroking — 

Finding small and medium-sized scars and promising to come back for *serious* examination — 

Pulling back to bite those *lips* — 

Aramis *whimpers* — 

Porthos walks them back against the *wall* — 

Thumbs Aramis's nipples — 

Aramis moans and licks his tongue, his lips, his *beard* — 

Porthos nips Aramis's tongue — 

"Oh —" 

"Not the bed?" 

"What you *wish*!" 

"Well, that's *every*-bloody-thing —" 

Aramis beams and laughs more — "I believe that you mean more things when you use that word than most, friend Porthos." 

Porthos grins and pushes Aramis's head up and to the side — 

Licks his throat right and proper — 

Aramis shudders and *groans* — 

Porthos *sucks* his throat — 

"Oh, *Porthos* —" 

"Mayhap I do, at that..." 

"Yes, what?" 

Porthos snickers and pulls back, grinning at Aramis — 

And Aramis grins right back, young and sweet and — 

And Porthos really needs to stop thinking of the brilliant, bloodthirsty, scholar-horseman-killer as being younger than him *quickly*. 

"Porthos...? Is all well?" 

Or... shouldn't he? Porthos leans in to nuzzle that soft, swollen mouth while he thumbs those nipples a little harder — 

A little more *seriously* — 

Aramis *groans* — 

Spreads his legs wide and *offers* — 

"Oh... Aramis..." 

"Yes. The answer — or is it? Are you well? What can I do?" 

"Keep responding to me just like this," Porthos says — all but *slurs* into Aramis's wet mouth — 

Soft, *soft* mouth — 

Aramis takes his kiss so perfectly, so *sweetly* — 

Opens up and *accepts* — 

And. 

Maybe 'younger' isn't the right word for it. 

Maybe the right word is something more like 'smaller' or 'subordinate' or — 

Submissive. 

Maybe pretending otherwise — *looking* for otherwise — in the interest of being well-behaved is the exact *wrong* way to *do* this, because... 

Well. 

He hadn't even met his Daddy, yet, before he knew that you didn't have to be a *child* to want to be... small. 

That it actually bloody *helped* to be an *adult* inside, because the thing about children is that they don't actually *know* what being a child is, or what being small is, until it gets stolen from them, one way or another. 

And then they get to decide what kind of adults they're going to be. 

And *then*, if they get lucky enough to find a lover, a *true* lover really worth something, they get to decide if they want to be young again sometimes, or small again, or something *like* that — 

Something... 

Something that might just feel special and rare and beautiful to a man who'd gotten *sold* by his own father. 

So. 

Porthos kisses Aramis *harder* for a long moment — 

Kisses his *deep*, *sweet* moan — 

And then pulls back and *pinches* those nipples. 

"Porthos!" 

"Yeah? Is it too much?" 

"Oh — nnh — please!" 

"Shh, give me a yes or a no, pet." 

"Am I — your pet?" 

"If you'd like to be," Porthos says, and smiles, making sure to keep his tone just as confident as he can never *quite* feel in the first moments of a first *time*. But — 

Aramis moans — 

Porthos grins — 

And then Aramis pushes him *back* — "Don't — please don't —" 

"What — no?" 

"You did not mean that, you do not want me as your pet, you do not — you are in love with your *father*, you want *him* tonight —" 

"Wait, *wait*," Porthos says, using his command-voice with malice aforethought — 

Aramis *moans* — 

And Porthos *puts* him up against the wall again, holding him there with one splayed hand on his rangy chest. "You felt the lie in there, and I'm not going to deny that there was one. I'm not sure I want you to be my pet, and that's because I'm not sure that you'd *like* being my pet. I'm used to... heh. I push people away, like I said. But that doesn't mean I don't *fuck*. And when I *do* fuck, I can be a pushy bloke. I was... going by the book for a moment, there. I apologize for that. You deserve much *better*." 

Aramis pants and *stares* at him for a long moment — 

"Aramis —" 

"There is a *book*?" 

"I — no. Or. I don't think so?" 

Aramis licks his lips and looks thoughtful. 

"Aramis?" 

"I wonder if, perhaps, there should not *be* a book." 

"Uh." 

"I wonder also if I am — utterly mad — you are in love with your *father*!" And Aramis glares at him. 

"Could you say that a *little* quieter?" 

"*Yes*. You are in love with your father, and I — what is — where do I fit?" And Aramis flushes *dark*. He — 

"You didn't want to say that." 

"Of course not —" 

"You fit here." 

"Porthos —" 

"You fit right bloody here, with me —" 

"I —" 

"At my *side* —" 

"*With* your father?" 

"I want to ride with you, Aramis," Porthos says, low and growled and absolutely *honest* as he stares into those black eyes — 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"I want to build a unit with *us* at the core —" 

"I — I'm not *good* enough —" 

"But you will be — fast, with my teaching." 

Aramis grunts again, eyes *wide* — 

"Yeah, you want it. You want it *almost* as much as you want to be *mine*." 

"Shit —" 

"Don't *deny* it —" 

"I cannot say *no* to you —" 

"Then *don't*. Because I'm not saying no to you, either," Porthos says, and strokes his splayed hand up and up and up until he's cupping Aramis's slim throat. 

And then he squeezes. 

"Let's be each other's. Right now — and for the *long* haul." 

If anything, Aramis's eyes get even *wider* — 

Even *needier* — 

Porthos *growls*. "Say *yes*." 

"Fuck —" 

"C'mon, brother. What are you scared of, mm? Let me take it away." 

"*Shit*. The — the *woman*. The lover your father *took* from you —" 

"No. Flea took *herself* from me. I'm older and more experienced and *smarter* than I was two years ago, and I can tell you that what fucked her up so bad about us had nothing to do with Daddy — and that's what I call him when he's being the man I'm in love with rather than the Captain or *just* Treville — and everything to do with the fact that she thought I'd forget about her when I got educated and *big* enough. And I can also tell you that she was *smart* enough to have a point. Because there's a part of her that wasn't ready to look any farther than the Court of Miracles, and that *was* too bloody small for me. So, when she kicked me out, I let her. 

"And Daddy was there to help me grieve, because she wasn't 'just' my lover, she was my sister, and one of my closest friends." And Porthos raises his eyebrows. "What else do you need to know?" 

Aramis swallows *hard* against the palm of Porthos's hand — 

Stares *wildly* into his eyes — 

"That. That *you* know that I will *never* be too small for you!" 

Porthos takes a shivery breath. "Well. I already figured that one out. But thank you." 

"Porthos —" 

"Brother." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"You like that." 

"Of course I —" 

"I like it, too. Especially since *Daddy* told me that he sincerely wanted to fuck me *into* you," Porthos says, and *pins* Aramis with a look. 

"You. You. He. Oh." 

"To anticipate your next question... this *isn't* the sort of conversation we tend to have about recruits. Or commissioned Musketeers, for that matter." 

Aramis swallows *twice*. "You... have not?" 

Porthos shakes his head slowly. 

Aramis *whimpers* — and lifts his rosary past Porthos's hand to kiss it. 

Porthos *snorts*. 

"Emil did tell you I was pious —" 

"And so did you, in your *several* ways. Brother." 

Aramis *grunts* — "Every time you say that, my cock *jerks*." 

"Really, now." 

"Yes. Please —" 

"Should I check for myself?" And Porthos cups Aramis's prick through his trousers with his free hand. "Mm? Brother?" 

"Nngh —" And Aramis's prick *jerks*, just like that. 

"Oh... brother," Porthos says, and gives Aramis a nice, rough *squeeze* as he twitches again — 

"Please — 

Again — 

"*Please*, Porthos —" 

"How do you want to spend, Aramis? Or are you the sort of man who likes your lovers to choose?" 

"I want — I want *you* to choose — if that's not too much!" 

Porthos *grins*. "It isn't. At all. It gets me hot," Porthos says, and squeezes Aramis's prick *again* — 

"Oh, *yes* —" 

"I like the idea of controlling you... brother..." 

"*Shit* —" 

And Porthos leans in, licking Aramis's ear hot and *wet* — 

"Ohn —" 

"Mayhap we should figure out how *much* I'm controlling you, eh?" 

Aramis takes a deep and *shuddering* breath — 

Swallows against Porthos's palm repeatedly — 

"I..." 

"Yeah? You have my undivided attention, brother..." 

"Fuck —" And Aramis flushes hot enough to *feel* — 

"That's perfect, brother, that's so *hot* —" 

"Please — *please* —" 

"Tell me. *Tell* me how much I'm controlling you." 

"I want — I want everything!" 

"All of my control?"

"Yes!" 

Porthos pants — and laughs. "Now you've got *me* flexing in my trousers, brother —" 

"Oh — *God* —" 

"And you just keep twitching in my hand. Mm. I can feel how hard you are. How *hot*." 

"For — for *you*!" 

"All mine?" 

"Yes!" 

"Nothing for Daddy?" 

And Aramis makes a *harshly* animal sound and twitches and twitches and *twitches* — 

Porthos grins and laughs hard. "That's what I *like* —" 

"Porthos —" 

"A man with some *taste* —" 

"*Porthos* — I — I — I would not come *between* you and your father!" And that was absolutely *serious*, and more than a little *worried*... 

"Aw, shh, 's all right, brother, I know you wouldn't," Porthos says, kissing Aramis's ear and moving back round so they can face each other. "You're not the type to play that kind of game, now are you?" 

"No! Please! I must — I must be your *brother* —" 

"Brothers have Daddies..." 

Aramis grunts and *seizes*, eyes wide — 

And Porthos grins and massages Aramis with both hands, throat and prick — 

Aramis's mouth falls open on a *gurgle* — 

"That's right, brother..." 

"I — please — I —" 

"You please *me* —" 

"Please let me be *yours*!" 

Porthos *grunts* — and growls a little helplessly. "And not Daddy's?" 

"I — I will do anything you wish, and — and of course he is a desirable man —" 

"Just your type, eh? Rough and tough old soldier who knows *all* the tricks and how to make all the tricks work for *you*?" 

Aramis *moans* — and laughs painfully. 

"Aramis?" 

"I — I have desired him since he first looked me in the *eye*, and I am quite sure he *knows* this —" 

"Eh, he's bad at realizing when people are drooling after him. You know he doesn't realize that half the regiment would bend right over for him?" 

Aramis blinks. "He — doesn't?" 

"He doesn't believe me! Even with them all walking around with his bloody beard and his bloody accent and his bloody *walk*." 

Aramis opens his mouth — 

And closes it — 

And licks his lips — 

"Yeah, it's sodding confusing, innit? I think it's because two of his three closest friends coming up were ridiculously pretty. Wears on a man." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. 

"But you already want him, and there's no reason to keep secrets —" 

"*Wait*. Wait. Please?" 

And Porthos realizes — "I'm — running you over *again*, aren't I?" 

Aramis smiles softly. "It's very enjoyable." 

"Is it?" 

"I want you to. For... other things." 

"But not this. I — I can understand. I *promise* I can," Porthos says, cupping a little more firmly — 

Squeezing *gently* — 

"Oh — Porthos —" 

"We can leave this alone. If that's what you want," Porthos says, and forces himself to bloody *wait*. 

"I — have questions." 

"I'll answer." 

Aramis *rubs* his throat against Porthos's palm — 

"Or I'll —" 

"No — no, wait —" 

"I'll wait. You were just... feeling me?" 

"Yes. Please. You feel... perfect," Aramis says, looking down slightly and blushing. 

Porthos growls a little — "So do you." 

Aramis sighs. "Thank you, Porthos." 

"You're welcome," he says. "Ask your questions." 

"Yes, Porthos," Aramis says, looking up and searching him a little. "Do you... do you *desire* me to make love with both you and your father?" 

"Yeah. It would... mm. I want it. I want it badly. But *only* if you actually want to as more than just, you know, a passing fancy." 

Aramis searches him more — 

And Porthos — gets it, he thinks. He moves his hand from Aramis's throat to his cheek again. "I promise. I don't need you to hurt *that* way. That's — that's never been a *good* way to hurt, as near as I can tell." 

Aramis takes a heavy breath — "I. Does. Does your father... share... you?" 

Porthos smiles wryly. "I know for a fact that he dreams, sometimes, of sharing me with the friends — the *brothers* — he lost. I got him *just* drunk enough to admit that once. That's as far as that'll ever go, I think — except for things like *this*." 

"He... is sharing you with me." 

"That he is." 

"He... I need more," Aramis says, and hangs his head. 

"You'll have it." 

"You... can make promises like that for your father?" And Aramis is talking to Porthos's *boots*. 

"I can. He listens to me —" 

"I am. So envious." 

"Oh, Aramis —" 

"I have wanted, so badly, to have a father like —" And then he stops himself and shudders — 

And shudders — 

"I ask myself: should I want such a thing as this? Should I desire something so outré? Is it proof that my father was correct about me all along —" 

"*No* —" 

"— that I *do* desire these things, that I —" 

"Aramis. *Stop*," Porthos says, sharp and hard.

Aramis gasps — and stops. 

"Good boy." 

"I —" 

"Shh. Look up." 

Aramis obeys, blinking and *panting* — 

"Good. Good boy. Two questions for you. Just two: What would your father say about *me*, knowing everything *you* know, and would he be right?" 

"I — I do not want to say what he would — of course he would be *wrong* —" 

"Would he be right about my father?" 

"No!" 

"About anyone you care for even a little?" 

"No, not —" 

"Then why the sodding hell would he be right about you? For *anything*?" 

Aramis stares at him, blinking and wide-eyed and — 

"You are so *incredibly* beautiful, Aramis. I want to —" Porthos shakes his head and growls. "You're smart, funny, kind, loving, thoughtful, *open* — all these incredible things. All these incredible things that *I* knew *I* liked *years* ago." 

"Oh — Porthos — nnk —" 

And Porthos *squeezes* Aramis's throat again. "So. I think we need a rule between us, brother..." 

Aramis's prick twitches *hard* in Porthos's other hand, through his trousers — 

Aramis's lashes *flutter* — 

"You gorgeous *man* — mm. C'mon, focus." 

"Yes — yes —" 

"Are you with me?" 

"Always, please!" 

Porthos *grunts* — and feels himself starting to sweat, hot and prickly and just a little needy. "Yeah, eh? I like that." 

And Aramis stares into him so deeply — 

So sweetly — 

"Please." 

"Yeah. A *rule*. Just for us. Are you ready?" 

"Yes, Porthos. Please — please give me discipline," Aramis says, and blushes even harder.

"You get me so *hot* — right. Here it is: I'm not allowed to run myself down. To treat my father's son like *shite*." 

"Oh. Oh..." 

"Yeah. Makes sense, doesn't it?" 

"Your. Your father's son... is *his*." 

"That's *right*. And if I start running that boy down..." 

"You are... you are damaging his... property?" 

"Exactly," Porthos says. "So here's the question — are you my brother?" 

"*Please*!" 

"Then I don't think I should let anyone treat my brother like shite, now should I?" And Porthos squeezes Aramis's throat again, just a little hard. 

Just enough to make it a little *challenging* for him to swallow, but not so much to breathe. 

Aramis flushes *dark* — 

His breathing *hitches* — 

For a moment he looks like he *can't* breathe, like he'll *choke* — 

Porthos doesn't let up. "Answer me." 

Aramis gasps — 

And gasps again — 

Shakes all *over* — 

Give him more. "It's my *job* to take care of my brother, Aramis. Just like it's your job to take care of *your* brother." 

"Yes!" 

"I don't back down from jobs, Aramis. *Brother*." 

"*God* — neither do I!" 

"Especially not from jobs I *want*." 

"I want — I want —" 

"You want *this*. You want to take care of me." 

"Yes! Please let me!" 

"I will. Just like *you'll* let me take care of *you*." 

"Oh — *God* —" 

"Because you're my brother." 

"Yes!" 

"You're my *responsibility*." 

Aramis *whines* — 

"Shh, don't fight it. Don't take yourself away from me," Porthos says, sweating harder and *squeezing* harder — with both hands — 

Aramis takes a *strained* breath — 

"Stay with me, brother." 

"Yours —" 

"Stay with me and be *mine*." 

"I — I want to be yours!" 

"Give yourself to me. Be my *brother*... and know that I'm not letting you go until you *tear* yourself out of my arms." 

"Ohn —" 

"And even then? I'll just come hunt you down," Porthos says, and squeezes *viciously* hard — 

"NNK —" 

Holds it — 

*Holds* it — 

"Be mine, brother," Porthos says, and stares unblinkingly into Aramis's eyes. 

Stares and holds and — 

And *feels* Aramis go *loose*, all over, even as he *parts* his lips — not gasps. 

Not even *tries* to gasp. 

He needs air — he's *dark* with it — but he's utterly still, and open, and *ready*.

Ready for him. 

Porthos loosens the grip he has on Aramis's throat. "Take a breath, deep and slow." 

Aramis nods once and obeys — 

And stops — 

And looks up into Porthos's eyes so — 

So fucking — "You're the most gorgeous man I've ever met in my life, and you're beautiful inside, too." 

"Nuh — you — *you* —" 

"Shh. Are you mine?" 

"Yes!" 

"Are you going to let me take care of you?" 

"Yes, please!" And Aramis is *shaking* —

Hard and *leaking* — there's a wet spot on his trousers — 

Panting and *moaning*, eyes *wild* — 

Porthos growls — "Are you my responsibility?" 

"Anything you *want*, Porthos! For — for as long as you want!" 

"Ah, fuck," Porthos says, diving in for a kiss, and another, and *another* — 

Aramis *takes* his kisses, opens up and leans back and *gives* himself — 

Porthos *growls* — 

Porthos steps back and flips Aramis's braces down, pulls his shirt up over his head — 

Aramis helps, but mostly just doesn't get in the *way* — 

And. Hard body. Fit. 

Lean, yeah, but still strong, still — 

And Porthos can see exactly where he's put on the muscle in the past year or so of working hard, working to fight the *scholar* out of himself —

He can see where the warrior is going to be. 

"Fuck, look at you..." And Porthos grins and strokes Aramis all over his chest and flat, hard belly — 

Pets and *scratches* a little to make the muscle jump — 

"You're so sodding *gorgeous*..."

Aramis moans and keeps his arms up high. "I am very happy you approve —" 

"My prick approves so much it's about to batter through my breeches and trousers," Porthos says, moving round behind Aramis and cupping his pectoral muscles from the back. "You're incredible." 

"I... I know I should be stronger —" 

"You will be. We'll work you hard." 

"You... and your father?" 

Porthos grins and nuzzles up to Aramis's ear again. "I think he'd enjoy that a lot..." 

"I... would, too. Brother." 

Porthos growls and presses his groin right up against that arse. "Yeah, brother? You want Daddy to work you hard?" 

"With you! Please." 

"Not alone, then. That's fair." 

"I — is it?" 

"Oh, yeah. You're mine to take care of, after all," Porthos says, and strokes down to Aramis's belly — 

Toys with the waist of his trousers — 

*Plucks* at it — 

"Should... should I take off more of my clothes?" 

Porthos narrows his eyes and thinks — "Bedroom, then yeah," he says, and steps away slowly. 

Aramis turns to face him with a *sweet* smile — 

Porthos grins, and nods toward the back rooms.

"Yes, Porthos," Aramis says, and walks, steady and graceful and — yeah, if Porthos is paying attention, he can see the salon in it. 

The *politesse* in the grace that'll get him killed if he tries to use it in an actual sword-battle. 

Porthos'd lay money that the politesse goes right out the window when he's using his *knives*. 

And — 

He'd really like to see that. 

He'd really, *really* like to see that. 

He's stripping himself down as he *walks*, because the *thought* of seeing it — 

Porthos growls and strips faster — 

Aramis is on the bed taking off his boots and socks after lighting the candles on the bedside tables — "Porthos?" 

"I'm thinking about you and knives, brother." 

"Oh. Yes?" 

"I'm thinking about how much I'd love to watch you *work*," Porthos says, leaning against the wall to get rid of his own boots and socks. 

"You... want to watch me use my knives?" 

"Oh, yeah, brother." 

Aramis stands and starts to open his trousers — 

"No, leave that for me." 

Aramis grunts, fingers spasming — he drops his hands to his sides. "Yes, Porthos. I — the knives..." 

"Mm?" 

"I have not seen the men spar that way. Is it not dangerous?" 

"That it is. But I wasn't talking about sparring. I was talking about you, me, a night in a *disreputable* tavern..." And Porthos grins and licks his teeth before standing straight and going back to work on his tunic — and his leathers are just as ornate and expensive as his pistols, but Porthos has to admit that that's as much his fault as Daddy's. 

Aramis gasps — and grins *wide*. "My brother wishes me to perform for him?" 

"He *absolutely* does." 

"While ridding the earth of still more lesser humans?" 

"What better way to spend an evening?" 

And Aramis raises an eyebrow... and then raises an eyebrow *at* the bed. 

Porthos laughs *hard* and tosses his tunic at the chair in the corner. "*Really*, now." 

"I would say... yes? Not that I have any objections to *your* plans, brother," Aramis says, and folds his hands behind his back. 

"Mm. Beautiful," Porthos says, and opens his trousers — 

And his crotch gains Aramis's *absolute* attention. "I thank you. And... I thank you." 

Porthos laughs and lets the trousers fall. "Waiting for this, were you?" 

"Aching for it," Aramis says, licking his lips. "Your trousers are so loose — you wear them much looser, even, than the other men! I have spent many hours dreaming and wishing to *know* —" 

"But you've *felt* me now," Porthos says, and opens his slick breeches just a little more slowly — 

"Oh, you are *vicious* — and too briefly!" 

Porthos laughs *hard* and slows down *more* — 

Aramis *whimpers* — "*Porthos* —" 

"Beg." 

Aramis flushes *hard* again — and grunts. And looks up, into Porthos's eyes. "Please, brother. Please show me your cock." 

Oh — 

"Please let me see you —" 

"That's all you want?" And Porthos tugs teasingly on his own laces. "Just to see...?" 

Aramis moans — "No — please. Please. I wish to taste you —" 

"Yeah? What else?" 

Aramis groans and starts to take a step closer — 

"Stay *right* there, brother. No one gave you permission to move." 

Aramis cries *out* — and his prick twitches *hard* in his trousers. *Visibly* hard, even in the low light. 

"*That* was gorgeous." 

"My brother... he enjoys my arousal?" 

"Everything about it. Keep begging." 

"Please let me touch you. Let me feel the shape of you in my hands, let me cup your balls and squeeze them — or. Do you like that?" 

Porthos grins. "I like that a *lot*. Handled a *few* bollock-sacs in your time, have you?" 

"Perhaps a couple," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully, gently — "I want to know how big yours is. I want to know if yours will stretch my mouth —" 

"Open wide." 

Aramis obeys immediately — 

"That's a *maybe*," Porthos says, and unlaces his breeches a little more — 

And breathes — 

And *breathes* — 

"Oh, your beautiful cock is *straining* —" 

"My prick *wants* you."

Aramis moans — 

"Beg more." 

"I want to *suck* your balls, to hold them in my mouth and suck them while your cock drips on my *face* —" 

"You know something, brother," Porthos says, and he really is impressed with how coherently those words came out — 

"Yes, brother?" 

"I'm basically a prick and bollocks on legs right now."

Aramis licks his lips. 

"That's not helping." 

Aramis licks his lips more *slowly* — 

"Brother —" 

"I would like... to be used. Please." 

Porthos takes a breath — 

Considers all the ways he *might* have miscalculated here and there — 

And then he strips the rest of the way down, crosses the room, kisses Aramis hard and *brief* — 

"Mm —" 

Turns and *shoves* him back onto the bed — 

"Oh — *Porthos* —" 

He *bounces* — 

His legs are hanging off the bed — 

He's still bloody half-*dressed* — 

But. 

"I believe you made a request," Porthos says, and climbs on, straddling Aramis's chest. 

"I — more than one!" 

Porthos laughs — "Very true. But I liked the one about *using* you..." 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"Yeah. You liked that one, too?" 

"Yes, please!" 

"You like for your lovers to run the *show*. The *whole* show," Porthos says, gripping the base of his prick in one hand and a handful of Aramis's beautiful hair with the other. 

"I — when I'm not — but you know!" 

"Tell me anyway," Porthos says, and jerks his chin at Aramis. 

"I want you to control everything *about* me, brother!" 

Porthos growls. "Done," he says, and "open up — *not* too wide." 

Aramis *parts* his lips *slightly* — 

Moans — 

And moans and moans and *moans* as Porthos *forces* his prick into that mouth — 

Hot mouth — 

Wet mouth — 

So sweet, so — 

"Oh, Aramis, you beautiful *thing*..." And Porthos is already panting again, already — 

But Aramis is *licking* him, *tasting* him — 

Moaning *more* — 

*Humming* and licking *faster* — 

"Ohh — fuck, brother, you like the taste? Mm?" 

Aramis nods — 

Porthos grips his hair tighter — "Don't — don't think you should be moving that pretty head so much. Nod *once* for yes. Shake your head *once* for no. Got it?" 

Aramis nods once and *sucks* — 

"Fuck — good boy. *Good* boy. And — mm. We didn't talk about that, did we." 

Aramis raises an *eyebrow* and *keeps* sucking — 

Porthos laughs and grins — "You're bloody perfect." 

Aramis's eyes are wide and *bright* — 

He sucks in dirty little *pulses* — 

Just — 

"Fuck, that's good — so *good* —" 

Aramis's eyes slip most of the way closed in pleasure — 

Porthos cups his face with his free hand, pets him, strokes his mussed beard. "You're amazing, perfect — mm. But are you my good boy?" 

Aramis *opens* his eyes again — 

Wide — 

And nods once. 

Porthos winces with *need* — "You get me so *hot*." 

Aramis sucks *hard* — 

"Nnh — no, no, not yet. You'll send me over too fast —" 

Aramis *pants* around him — 

"No, no, close that mouth up tight —" 

"Mmph — *mmmm* —" And Aramis licks and licks and — 

"Ah — shit, you're — is it because you *want* me to leak more for you?" 

Aramis nods. 

"You want my slick all over your tongue?"

Aramis groans and *shakes* and nods — 

"I want it, too, brother. I want — fuck. Can you take a little more?" 

Aramis nods once — but he does it so fervently that a few hairs let go. 

Porthos gasps a laugh. "Does that mean you can take a *lot* more?" 

Aramis whimpers and nods — 

And *pleads* with his eyes — 

And suckles so *sweetly* — 

"Oh, fuck, brother, you're *killing* me," Porthos says, and "but here," and he thrusts in a little deeper — 

Just a little — 

Aramis groans *loudly*, lashes fluttering on his cheeks — 

"You're *gorgeous* — fuck, you get more," Porthos says, and pushes deep, deep — 

Nudges up against the back of that throat — 

Makes Aramis *need* to swallow again and again and — 

"Yeah — yeah... fuck. Can you still suck?" 

Aramis nods and gives it to him, not as hard as before but so sweet, so fucking *sweet* — 

"*Fuck* — good boy, *good* boy —" 

And Aramis blushes *deeply* —" 

"You like that better when my prick's nice and deep, brother?" 

Aramis *shudders* and nods — 

"You feel more — nngh — more like a good boy? My — *my* good boy." 

Aramis nods again — 

"You ever want to take that any farther —" 

Aramis nods *sharply* — 

"*Fuck* — right, absolutely, but *first*," Porthos says, and pushes *in* — 

Aramis gulps and swallows him down — 

And down — 

And *down* — 

"Oh... brother. You just... good boy. Perfect boy. You're all full now," Porthos says, panting and sweating like a *pig*. "I bet you're just as hard as hard can *be*." 

Aramis nods once and groans in his chest — 

His lashes are fluttering again — 

There's drool sliding down his chin — 

"You're so —" Porthos growls and pulls out enough to let Aramis breathe — 

And breathe — 

He shoves back in and makes Aramis *gulp*. "You're so *good*, brother. You make me hard as *stone*." 

Aramis nods *once*, lifting his hands — and not touching. 

"You're asking permission, brother?" 

Aramis groans in his chest again — and nods. 

Porthos brings one of Aramis's hands to his bollocks and makes Aramis squeeze him *tight* — 

He *grunts* — 

He makes Aramis squeeze him *harder* — "Fuck —" 

Aramis *shakes* under him — 

"Oh — brother. Unh. I guess you did say you liked this, too," Porthos says, laughing breathlessly and rolling his hips — in — 

Aramis gulps — 

Swallows — 

Shakes *more* — 

And Porthos — can't. He can't. "I need you, brother. I need to fuck you —" 

Aramis *bucks* under him — and *pleads* with his eyes. 

"Oh — fuck, yes, *yeah*," Porthos says, and swivels his hips like Daddy — 

Aramis whimpers and *swallows* — 

Squeezes his eyes shut — 

Swallows again and *again* — 

And Porthos groans and shudders and — fuck, *drips* sweat right down onto Aramis's face. 

He — 

He pulls out — 

"No —" 

"Shh. Just breathe. 'cause you won't for. For a little while —" 

And Aramis *gasps* — 

Chokes on it — but he gets control before Porthos can say anything, breathing deep and ragged and staring into Porthos's eyes so *hungrily*. 

He — 

"Throat or mouth, brother." 

Aramis's whimper is a *question* — 

"Where. Where am I spending." 

Aramis *groans* — 

Breathes even *more* raggedly — 

His hand is *shaking* under Porthos's on Porthos's bollocks — until Porthos makes him squeeze again, when it goes still and steady and perfect — 

So hard and strong and — 

Porthos throws his *head* back and pumps at *nothing* — 

"Please! Please give me —" 

"Yeah — *fuck*," Porthos says, looking back down and moving his hand from Aramis's, gripping his prick again and *shoving* it in — 

"MMPH — *mmngh* —" 

"Oh, you're my beauty, my boy, my — fuck, just swallow me *in* —" 

Aramis *lunges* against the grip on his hair and *takes* Porthos's prick in — 

Takes him deep, takes him *perfect* — 

Porthos is groaning and growling and *fucking*, just like — 

Oh, just like — 

"C'mon, squeeze me, pump my bollocks in your perfect hand —" 

Aramis groans in his chest and obeys, reaches with his other hand — 

*Pleads* with his other hand — 

"Touch my *thigh*, stroke it, let — fuck — let me feel your *calluses* —" 

And Aramis obeys again, fuck, makes *love* to Porthos's thigh with his hand, squeezes and *works* Porthos's bollocks with his other hand — 

Porthos is growling and fucking — 

In and in — 

So *hard* — 

"Do you — do you *like* it, brother —" 

Aramis nods, eyes *barely* open, lashes fluttering, face *flushed* — 

Lips so *swollen* — and only getting more so with every thrust, every push, every — 

And Porthos can't keep himself from nudging up farther, panting and *looming* over Aramis, groaning and fucking *down* into his hot mouth, welcoming — 

So — 

"*Aramis* —" 

He nods again, ready, open, *willing* — 

"God, fuck — *Aramis* —"

He nods and squeezes Porthos's bollocks *viciously* — 

And Porthos grunts and *slams* in — 

Aramis gulps and stiffens and squeezes again, just that hard, just that — 

And now the fuck is a rough one, a *wild* one, and Aramis is shaking his head just a little — 

Aramis is *tossing* his head just a *little* — 

Not enough to dislodge Porthos's hand. 

Not enough to stutter Porthos's *rhythm* — 

And Porthos is growling again, fighting to get deeper, fuck every *virginal* part of Aramis, make *his* marks the ones that show — 

The ones that *matter* — 

He's gripping Aramis's hair so *hard* — 

He's being a greedy *arsehole* — 

He can't actually stop. Not — not yet. Not with Aramis swallowing around him like this, taking him so perfectly, taking all of him and urging him to give *more* — 

God, that hand on his *bollocks* — 

Any tighter would be too *much*, but this — 

This just makes him sweat, makes him sleek and hungry and *rude* as he fucks his brother's mouth, his *boy's* mouth, and Daddy could've *warned* him that he'd wind up with a fixation like *this* one — 

He can hear Daddy's most *bastard*-ish laughter — 

And he wishes Daddy were here, *right* here, watching Porthos giving it to *his* boy — 

Soon to be *their* boy — 

Watching and wanting and, God, yeah, *directing*, making Porthos do things *his* way — 

Making Porthos suffer for every moment he *slips* — 

Porthos's prick spasms *hard* — 

He grips the bolster with his free hand and all but *barks* a cry — 

Aramis squeezes Porthos's *thigh* hard enough to bruise, but his grip on Porthos's bollocks is still perfect, still just right, still just everything he *needs*, and he can't — 

His rhythm stutters *again* — 

But he can't stop fucking, he *won't* stop fucking, not with this gorgeous *fucking* man under him, touching him and wanting him, wanting to be his *brother* — 

His boy — 

His *responsibility* — 

Porthos's prick spasms *hard* —

He can't — 

He can't even *hear* himself groaning — 

He can't make himself *stop* — 

And he can't make himself stop picturing — everything he wants. 

Laying Aramis out and taking his clothes off. 

Rubbing Aramis down after a hard day's training and then fingering him *wide* open.

Making Aramis come on his fingers again and again — 

Making Aramis his boy. 

Always his *boy*, and it's not that he *wouldn't* give Aramis his prick; he's bloody *human*, but — 

The control. 

Daddy's taught him a lot about it. 

Daddy's taught him to — 

Need — 

And there's nothing controlled about this slam and fuck and *grind*, this endless *push* to just sodding *take* Aramis's *face* — 

Make it his, make it — 

His — 

So beautiful — 

So *perfect* — 

He *knows* he's growling again — 

So *hungrily* — 

And then Aramis opens his eyes again, and they're wide and dazed and *happy*, so *happy* even as Porthos drives in and in and — 

Porthos shudders and gasps and spasms and *spurts*, and he can't stop *fucking*, he can't — 

Not even when Aramis bucks again, not even when Aramis starts to *milk* him — 

Ah — *fuck* — 

*Fuck* — 

Porthos groans and *slams* in, holding himself there while Aramis gets darker and darker and *darker* — 

Just a little longer — 

Just — 

And then he's *gasping* for the *jerk* of his prick when Aramis swallows around him again — 

And he can pull *all* the way out — 

And spurt just a *little* bit more on that wide-open mouth while Aramis gasps and shudders and *moans*. 

He's barely doing any *better*, but he can gently tug Aramis's hand away from his bollocks —

Kiss *all* the knuckles — 

"Beautiful, you're sodding —" 

"Oh, Porthos — oh, *Porthos* —" 

Oh — "You *loved* that —" 

"Yes!" 

"Let's do it all the bloody time," Porthos says, laughing and scooting back down the bed and kissing Aramis all over his grinning, messy face. 

"Yes — mm — oh, yes — oh — *MM* — oh, yes, please, *please* —" 

"Oh, you were so bloody *perfect* — 

"Yes? Truly?" 

"Better than — fuck, I've never. Only Daddy's been that good." 

Aramis *beams* and reaches up to cup Porthos's face —

"Yeah, do *that* —" 

"Yes, brother?" 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and leans in to take a slower, harder kiss — 

A more affectionate and — and *loving* kiss — 

Aramis *shudders* — 

*Bucks* again — 

Right up against Porthos's sensitized *prick* this time — 

"Mm," Porthos says, and pulls back — 

"I apologize —" 

"Shh. You've nothing to apologize for. It's time to take care of my boy," Porthos says, and grins. 

Aramis's jaw drops — and he moans. "Porthos. Porthos. I am very hard." 

"Yeah, eh? Slick, too?" And Porthos moves off the bed, stands —

Aramis pants — "Yes — yes, please —" 

"I like *that* a lot," Porthos says, leaning in and unlacing those trousers. 

Aramis laughs and spreads his legs, just like that. "I'm very happy about this..." 

"Are you, then?" 

"Oh, yes, brother," Aramis says, blushing a little and arching up a *lot* — 

Porthos drags the trousers down obligingly — and Aramis's breeches are slick enough to be a little translucent. Just — 

Porthos stares *hungrily* — 

Cups and *squeezes* — 

Aramis whimpers — "Porthos —" 

"Tell me about that happiness." 

Aramis blows out a breath and all but *beams* at him with his eyes. "This is the happiest night of my *life*." 

Porthos's heart seizes a little for that, and he thinks, maybe, before Daddy, in a life where Flea and Charon were his family and everyone else was everyone *else*, words like that would've *terrified* him. 

Now... 

Well, as of this morning, *Daddy* was his family and everyone else was everyone else, but... 

His world is still bigger than it used to be. 

And, when your world gets bigger, maybe you get a little bigger, too. 

Or braver. Porthos beams back. "Only Daddy has given me nights this good." 

Aramis shivers. "I will give you — please let me *please* you —" 

"What d'you think you're doing right now, eh?" 

Aramis pants — "I — yes?" 

Porthos licks his lips and gives Aramis another squeeze through his breeches — 

Aramis *grunts* — "Please — *please* —" 

"How long can you hold *out*, brother?" 

Aramis cries out a little, prick jerking under his breeches — "I am not certain!" 

"But you have played that game before?" And Porthos starts working on opening Aramis *right* up — 

Stares at those *dark* brown curls at his groin — 

Licks his *lips* — 

But — Aramis is too quiet. 

Porthos looks up — 

And finds Aramis staring at *him* wonderingly. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows — and doesn't pause in getting those breeches off. He can't, at this point. "What is it, brother?" 

And seeing that prick *flex* like that — 

Even while he sees Aramis wince with *lust* — 

Porthos growls and *yanks* the opened breeches the rest of the way off — 

Aramis arches immediately — "Yes, please — *please* —" 

And then Aramis is naked for him, and Porthos can pick him up — 

"Oh, *God* —" 

— and toss him all the way onto the bed — 

Aramis *grips* at the duvet and spreads — 

Grips with one hand and *reaches* with the other — 

"Absolutely, brother," Porthos says, and crawls up between those long, strong, beautiful legs — 

"Oh. Oh — should I —" 

"Stay *right* there," Porthos says, and massages a little tension out of Aramis's thighs — 

Aramis moans — 

"Stay right there and tell me why you couldn't answer me when I asked you if you'd played *denial* games before." 

"Oh — *oh*. It isn't — I have played those games with -- with ladies of custom!" 

"Yeah, eh? And you liked them?" 

"Yes, very much, though not as much as other —" And Aramis moans *desperately* when Porthos moves one hand to his bollocks. 

"Mm. You gorgeous —" Porthos growls and starts massaging lightly. "C'mon, keep talking." 

"Please — please, it's very hard —" 

"I can see *that*," Porthos says, and laughs. "You just tell me when the teasing gets *too* hard to take." 

"Yes — *yes*, Porthos! I will take as much as I can!" 

And — fuck. He hadn't even asked for that — 

He wanted to. He was thinking about it — 

As much as you can call what he was doing 'thinking' — 

"Porthos? Is it wrong?" 

"*Fuck*, no, brother —" 

"Nnh —" 

"Shh, shh. It's right. It's just right. And I'm going to be ready for you again *imminently*." 

"Oh — *God*," Aramis says, and kisses his rosary again — 

Utterly killing *all* of Porthos's desires to *restrain* those arms, but — but. "Are you thanking God for this, Aramis?" 

"For *you*, brother! For — for everything you *are*." 

Porthos opens his mouth — but the only thing that comes out is a *growl*. 

"Is that —" 

"Does. Does your God have *room* for this?"

And Aramis nods vigorously. "My God is a God of love and acceptance —" 

"A *what*?" 

Aramis laughs breathlessly, sweetly, "I will explain it, I will show you in *any* true Bible —" 

"What —" 

"The words of the Saviour, the Redeemer, He who died on the Cross for our sins —" 

"I got that part —" 

"No, no, so many people do not, not truly!" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows, taking a moment to really *deal* with the fact that he's having *this* conversation with Aramis's *bollocks* in his fist while Aramis's undoubtedly aching prick leaks slick all *over* his belly. And then he just takes a deep — and delicious-smelling — breath and nods. "Right, then, brother — " 

Twitch — 

"— what don't we get?" 

Aramis moans and *beams*, and he's so obviously *thrilled* to get the chance to answer this question — and delay his own spend even *more* — that Porthos feels horrible for needing that moment. 

He'll remember this, though. "Go on. Tell me. Tell me all about it," Porthos says, and *just* warms Aramis's bollocks in his fist. 

Aramis moans more and sweats and — "It's — it is the fundamental *concept* that the Church generally fails to teach. The Christ *died for our sins*, and, in doing so, washed them away. We who were once tainted with the Original Sin of Adam and Eve —" 

"The Garden of Eden, yeah —" 

"The Christ took that on Himself, and suffered for it for three days, and spent another three days in the lands of the dead —" 

"And — then we were clean?" 

"We do, of course, commit more sins as we live our lives —" 

"Oh — yeah —" 

"But we are no longer inherently *filthy*, and so long as we live lives devoted to the principles of love and fellowship and brotherhood, so long as we — we *reject* the idea that this group of men, or this group, or that group over there are somehow *not* our brothers —" 

"Well, what if that group of men over there are a bunch of bullies, eh?" 

"Ah, well, then we're supposed to help teach them the proper way of things at least a little bit before summarily killing — not murdering — them," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. 

Porthos looks at him. 

"I did not say that I wasn't a sinner, brother. I merely said that I — *we* — are not *inherently* sinful." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully — and then nods at Aramis's rosary. "I like your religion." 

"Perhaps... my brother will pray with me?" And Aramis's eyes are as wide and full as they were when he was asking for a *kiss*. 

Porthos pants. "I've... I've never been that religious..." 

"No, I — I imagine —"

"I'd like to learn from you, Aramis," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's thigh with the hand he doesn't have on his bollocks. "I'd like you to just... guide me through the Bible —" 

"Oh — God — *God* —" 

"— and teach me what I need to *know* —" 

"I will! I *will* at any time you wish!"

"And maybe there are other holy books —" 

"Porthos! Porthos, please *touch* me!" 

"Go on, kiss your rosary for me," Porthos says, and *squeezes* Aramis's bollocks while moving his other hand to Aramis's prick — 

"*Yes*," Aramis says, and obeys — 

And does it again and again — 

And starts praying in Latin, starts — 

Fuck, he's sweating and moaning and fucking Porthos's *fist*, but he never stops running the beads of the rosary over his *lips* and — praying. 

It's easily the hottest *and* the oddest sex Porthos has ever had — Daddy's always been a lot more straightforward about his wants and needs and fixations, and he and Flea (and sometimes Charon) were *kids* together. 

The rest were the *rest*, and you just didn't get fancy with people you didn't mean to play with more than once or twice — 

With people you *only* meant to play with — 

This — 

This isn't play. 

This is Aramis's perfect, long prick in his hand — 

These are his tight, *full* bollocks in his other hand — 

This is him, staring so much at the gorgeous and abandoned *expanse* of Aramis's body — everything his for the *taking*! — that he's barely being *competent* with his stroke and squeeze and squeeze-squeeze *stroke* — 

But Aramis is still arching — 

Aramis is gasping and *crooning* between prayers — 

He's not going to *make* it — 

There's no way in — Heaven that he's going to make it, he's been waiting too *long*, but fuck if Porthos doesn't want to do this, or some other version of this every fucking *day*. Pray this way, *give* this way — 

Yeah. 

Yeah, and it doesn't matter that he'd never really set foot in a church before he was an adult; there are certain things you just *have* to know if you're going to be a member of Parisian society — 

And a noble — 

And, most importantly, a *Musketeer*. So. Porthos starts saying the rosary *with* Aramis, imagining the feel of smooth beads against his lips — 

Aramis cries *out*, prick spasming *hard* — 

It doesn't *stop* — 

Aramis doesn't stop *yelling* — 

There are *tears* on his cheeks — 

So Porthos keeps praying, picking up where Aramis had left off — 

Aramis groans and *sucks* at the beads — 

Bucks *hard* into Porthos's fist — 

He's still *spasming*, and it's bloody *necessary* to squeeze him hard, to *work* him hard — 

To make him open his mouth on a *soundless* scream — 

Porthos squeezes his bollocks *viciously* — and Aramis coughs and whimpers and starts to spurt, just like that, muttering *incoherently* in Latin and giving himself utterly — 

Arching and spurting *more* — 

Smacking the hollow of his own *throat*, and Porthos can't wait, he has to lean in and lick it up, suck it up, get spattered on the belly and listen to Aramis gasp and moan — 

And gasp more — 

And start praying again. 

Where *Porthos* left off. 

Porthos leaves him to it and licks him clean. Chin and beard — 

Throat and chest — 

*Extensive* detours for those nipples — 

Aramis shivers and gasps and keeps *praying* — 

So *beautifully* —

"You almost make me wish you *were* a priest," Porthos whispers to Aramis's belly-button. 

Aramis gasps a little — but finishes the rosary before saying: "And not your brother?" 

"Always my brother." 

"But —" 

"'m not always the best at logistics, brother. Daddy's had to *work* that into me," Porthos says, and smiles up the length of Aramis's body at him. 

"Oh — oh..." 

"Yeah. So. There you are, my brother in black —" 

"Porthos —" 

"Guiding my soul to where it needs to be. *Teaching* me what I need to know —" 

"I will do that!" 

"Letting me crawl up your cassock and suck your hard prick —" 

"*No* — don't. Don't," Aramis says, and his face is almost *waxen* with unhappiness. It's that pale. That *stiff*. 

And Porthos remembers that little *hint* Aramis had given him about the difference between old soldiers and priests, and how they treat pretty little boys — oh. "Fuck. I — brother, I'm sorry —" 

"N-no, don't, you didn't know —" 

"I should've. I — you bloody ran *away* from the seminary —" 

"Not for that *reason* —" 

"I — no?" 

"I was... too old to interest the deviants by the time I ran away," Aramis says, and clutches his rosary tight with one hand and strokes over his own beard and moustache with the other. 

Porthos growls. "Aramis —" 

"Do not — do not apologize again. Please. It makes me — I don't want to feel like someone who needs apologies to *exist*." 

"It's not —" 

"And I know it isn't that. I know you do not mean —" Aramis turns away, facing the far wall, where there's another armoire. 

Porthos kneels up between Aramis's legs and cups his hips, careful to pay no special attention to the scars there — the scars that could *only* have come from Aramis being caned repeatedly. 

By the deviants? 

Or just 'regular' abusers? 

Both? 

Porthos squeezes Aramis *hard* — 

And Aramis gasps and makes a small, dark sound — 

"I'm listening, brother. To whatever you need to say." 

Aramis *shudders* — 

"Anything —" 

"Perhaps... perhaps my brother could. Give me discipline," Aramis says in a *small* voice — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

He would've thought — but. That's just it. *He* would need anything *but* discipline in a moment like this one. He'd need his Daddy to hold him and just — use that soft and rumbling voice. 

His brother isn't him, though, or — 

Maybe the discipline doesn't have to be *hard*? 

Not all of *Daddy's* discipline is hard, after all, and — 

And Porthos doesn't think he could *be* hard on Aramis right now. So. 

He squeezes his hips *tight* — 

"Nnh —" 

"Yeah. D'you feel me, brother?" 

"Oh — yes. Yes. Nothing — no one else —" 

"But that's not true, is it?" 

Aramis winces. "I..." 

"Shh. It's all right. I just have to *make* you feel me, now don't I?"

Aramis inhales sharply — and *then* looks at him. 

"That's it..." 

"Oh, Porthos —" 

"Brother." 

"*Brother*," Aramis says. "Please — *please* make me feel you!" 

"Happily," Porthos says, and smiles. "But you have to come to me a little..." 

"Come? To you?" 

"That's right. It's our first time. We don't know each other so well, right?" 

"No... no..." 

"So we have to fix that, yeah?" And Porthos starts massaging those hips. 

"Oh — fuck. That feels so good, brother —" 

"That's fixing it." 

"Wh-what? I'm sorry — I meant, yes, we have to —" 

"And every time you show me — or tell me — about something you love — or don't love — we're fixing things." 

"Oh — yes —" 

"You're coming to me." 

"I want to — I *want* to —" 

"You're coming into my arms." 

"Oh, brother, yes, yes, please!" 

"You're going to keep coming, aren't you?" 

"Yes!" 

Porthos strokes back down to Aramis's thighs and lifts them over his own. "How's this, then?" 

"Yes! *Yes*!" 

"You like it?" 

"I want it! I want you to fuck me just like this!" 

"Shh. Do you want this?" And Porthos lifts Aramis's half-hard prick against his own *rock*-hard one — 

"Unh — YES! I want you to hold us together! I want you to — to *squeeze* us together —" 

"Now you're coming to me," Porthos says, and does just that — 

Aramis cries out, prick twitching against Porthos's own — 

And twitching again — 

And twitching *again* — and stiffening up *fast*. "Please please —"

"*Brother*," Porthos says, low and *hard* — 

Aramis cries out and *arches*, pushes into Porthos's fist, fucks against Porthos's *prick* — 

"Nnh. Mm. There you are..." 

"Yes — *yes*!" 

"You feel me, brother?" 

"Oh, yes!" 

"Are you mine?" 

"Yours and — and no one else's!" 

"You're safe with me, brother..." 

"Oh, God, oh, God, yes, please —" 

"Won't leave for anything, brother," Porthos says, and squeezes them *tight* — 

Aramis *screams* — 

And Porthos groans and sweats, needs, *needs* — "When Daddy — when Daddy *calls*. He'll call for *us*. He'll *know*, 'cause I'll *tell* him —" 

And Aramis screams again, brief and *sharp* — 

Thrusts up and up and *up* into Porthos's fist — 

"I'll tell him you're *mine*, brother —" 

"Yours!" 

"I'll tell him he was *right* about you —" 

Aramis whimpers and sobs and *spasms* — 

"I'll tell him that you *are* worthwhile, that you *are* one of the wonderful things in this world I bloody *deserve* —"

"Nuh — unh — Porthos!" 

"I'll tell him I'm bloody — *nnh* — bloody *keeping* you —" 

Aramis cries out again, arching off the bed — 

"Mine forever, aren't you?" 

"Please —" 

"*Aren't* you?" 

"Yes! *Yes*!" And Aramis is staring *wildly* into Porthos's eyes — 

Shaking all *over* — 

Fuck — 

*Fuck* — "I'm yours, too, brother," Porthos says, low and anything but even, barely sodding *human* — 

Aramis *sobs* — 

"Let me have you," Porthos says — *growls*. 

"Anything you —" 

"Where's your — pomade? Oil?" 

Aramis flails out with the hand still holding the rosary — and he doesn't let go of it when he opens the drawer in the bedside table and pulls out a little stoppered pot. He — 

"Oh, Aramis. Aramis, you're so *perfect*." 

Aramis *beams* at him. "For *you*!" 

Porthos licks his lips and takes the pot. "One day, I'm just going to spend hours tasting every inch of you. Would you like that, brother?" 

Aramis winces and shudders. "Every — I — I have not..." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "No? And you don't want to?" 

"Oh — no — I *have*. I mean — that is to say — many of the soldiers, they seemed to vastly enjoy... tasting me." 

"A sweet little boy like you were? I know *I* wouldn't have kept my face out of your arse." 

Aramis almost *coughs* a cry — "That — oh, that..."

"Mm? Something especially... tasty about that thought?" And Porthos slicks his fingers with the — and he's really going to have to look into just what the *hell* Aramis has been doing for Madame Angel — olive oil. 

Aramis laughs explosively *while* blushing — and then bites his lip. 

Like a boy. 

Porthos licks his teeth. "Tell me, brother. Tell me *all* about it." 

"You... you have already asked me if I was interested in... boyishness." 

Oh... "That I did," Porthos says, and rubs his slick fingers together. "How about now?" 

Aramis whimpers. "I — I — do you like — do you want —" 

"I do, and I do. My woman and I — the one I had before Daddy — played that game a *lot*." 

"Oh. Oh. And she was not... young? Truly?" 

Porthos smiles wryly. "She was about as much older than me as you are, actually." 

Aramis... blushes harder. But he still says: "But she was still... your little girl?" 

His smile is a lot dirtier now. "My little sister... brother." 

"Oh." 

"Mm," Porthos says, and reaches down to rub at Aramis's puckered little hole — 

Aramis gasps — 

"Do you want that? Mm? Do you want to be my little brother?" 

Aramis *pants* — 

And flushes right down to his belly button — 

And whimpers.

"Yeah? Should I take you down that far...?" And Porthos deliberately leaves a *space* — 

Aramis stares up at him while his little hole clenches and clenches and — "Please. Please — take me down." 

"Come to me, then." 

"Yes —" 

"Come right down to where you belong." 

"Oh — Porthos —" 

"Down and down to where you're just a little boy." 

Aramis blushes and *moans* — "Yes, please —" 

"Down to where you can be *my* little boy." 

"I — I always — want —" 

"You want to be my little boy?" And Porthos presses hard on that sweet little hole. 

Aramis moans more — "I want to be everything to you —" 

"But you want to be my little boy, specifically." 

"Yes, Porthos —" 

"Right now." 

"Yes —" 

"You want to be my little boy... and my little brother. Don't you." 

"Yes, brother — big brother —" 

Porthos's prick flexes and he growls — "That's beautiful. Perfect. Say it again." 

"Yes, big brother," Aramis says, and flushes more — but he also smiles, opens and bright and — 

"Mm. You're close. Just keep dropping right down, little brother..." 

"Oh —" 

"All the way down to where you can be mine..." 

"Yes — yes, big brother —" 

"Where I can teach you and guide you and *touch* you..." 

"Oh, please, please, *yes*, big brother!" 

Porthos growls more. "There you are." 

"Yes — " 

"Shh. You want your big brother to open you up, love?" 

Aramis moans — "Please — please, I want to feel you inside me!" 

"But you've had other men inside you, haven't you...?" And Porthos rubs and rubs... 

"Yes — nnh — *yes* — and I liked it very much!" 

Porthos laughs. "You love your soldiers, don't you." 

"Yes, big brother, and I love you!" 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Blinks — 

And just — just — 

"Big brother? Is all well?" 

— just *deals* with the fact that he'd asked for — *demanded* — exactly this. "No, little brother —" 

"Oh, no!" 

"Everything's bloody perfect," Porthos says, grinning and waggling his eyebrows a little bit —

"*Oh* —" And Aramis — giggles. 

Fuck — 

Oh, *fuck*, that's — 

"That's beautiful," Porthos says, and tries to — 

"That is not what you wanted to *say*," Aramis says, and there's — there's actually just a little bit more Spain in his voice, which makes *sense*, but is also one of the numerous things that are going to kill him. 

"I —" 

"You have to tell me the *truth*, big brother!" 

"Fuck — always." 

"Yes! Always!" 

"Your giggles *are* beautiful —" 

"But —" 

"They're also hot as *fire*."

Aramis's jaw drops — and then he giggles *more*. "Big brother! That is a very silly thing to be aroused by!" 

"Is it, then?" 

"Yes!" 

"Sillier than the sound you make when I do this?" And Porthos pushes *deep* with one finger — 

"*Ai* — oh — *oh*! Much sillier!" 

"Hmm. All right. What about this? Is it sillier than this?" And Porthos *crooks* that finger — 

"*Nah* — big *brother*! Yes! Very silly!" 

Porthos makes a show of frowning and nodding — 

While *thrusting* with that finger — 

And not *quite* meeting Aramis's eyes — 

"Ah! Ah! Oh, *yes*!" 

"Sillier than that, then?" 

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" 

"Was that a yes?" 

Aramis giggles *hard* — 

Gasps and *whimpers* — 

Giggles *more* — "Yes! Yes and — please!" 

"Please *what*, little brother? Stop being silly? I don't think I *can* do that." 

"Ohn — oh, big brother, you're so *warm*!" 

"Inside you?" 

"All — all of you —" And Aramis winces and moans and sits up on his elbows — only to throw his head back — "My big brother — so kind and good —" 

"Oh, Aramis —" 

"I am the luckiest — please fuck me more!" 

"With just this finger —" 

"No, no, a second one! Please stretch me wide for you!" 

Porthos growls. "You want to be nice and loose for your big brother?" 

"Yes! Unless — do you want me tighter? Would that please you? Was your sister very —" 

"I liked opening her wide, precious —" 

"I am precious?" 

"You're perfect, amazing — you're the sodding crown jewels as far as I'm concerned —" 

Aramis giggles and arches up — "I would be much less comfortable to fuck, I think —" 

Porthos snorts. "Aramis." 

"What? This is objective *truth*. Please give me your fingers, your thick *fingers* —" 

"Yeah, I — yeah," Porthos says, because he can't really tease for this, can't — 

He pulls out enough to make it *easy* to slip his middle finger in — 

And in — 

And Aramis croons for him, smiles and curls his toes and just — 

"Look at you..." 

"No, no, I want to look at *you* —" 

"Yeah? Well, I want to stare at you all night long while you spend and spend and —" 

Aramis clenches *tight* — 

Cries *out* — 

Flexes open for an *eye*-blink and then clenches up tight *again* — 

"Oh, little brother..." 

"Porthos — big brother —" 

"Is it too much for you?" 

"No!" 

"Is it just enough?" 

Aramis gasps another laugh — "No!" 

Porthos grins. "No, eh? I should fill you up to the brim, then?" 

"Oh, no!" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows and starts to *work* his fingers in Aramis. "No...?" 

"N-no — oh — *oh* —" 

"C'mon, little precious, you can answer me..." 

"I love all your names for me!" 

"You're mine. Have to make sure you know to come when you're called, don't I?" 

"Yes! *Yes*!" 

Porthos crooks his fingers — 

Aramis throws his head back and *howls*, arching more and — 

Ah, fuck, working *himself* on Porthos's fingers — 

Panting and *using* himself — 

"Oh, little *brother* —" 

"You — *you*!" 

"Me?" 

"Ngh — big brother, you —" And Aramis moans and faces forward again, eyes wild and young and *thrilled* even as he *rides* Porthos's fingers. "You must fill me to *overflowing*!" 

Porthos blinks — 

Looks down at his prick, which is *not* a fountain — 

Looks back up at Aramis — 

— who absolutely reaches up to cover his mouth and much of his *face* for *these* giggles, which are sodding *explosive*. But. 

"Don't cover your mouth, little brother..." 

Aramis gasps — 

*Yanks* his hand away from his mouth — 

"I apologize! I will not hide from — from you!" 

"Not ever?" And Porthos keeps giving it to him, keeps *fucking* him with his fingers — 

Aramis keeps *riding* him — "Never! *Never*!" 

"'cause you're all mine?" 

"Oh, yes! Oh, *yes*!" 

"I get to have you for myself?" 

"Yes, big brother! I am for you!" 

Porthos licks his lips and sodding *sweats* more — "All your grace, all your beauty and brilliance and *cleverness* — that's all mine, then." 

"It — ohn — it means more in *your* hands!" 

Porthos growls and cups Aramis's right inner thigh with his free hand — 

Makes Aramis spread *wider* — 

So much — 

"Oh, big *brother* —" 

"There — *there* —" 

"This is better?" 

"I can see all of you, so *yes*," Porthos says, and he knows he's less smiling than snarling *happily* — 

"I will never *hide*! You — you must —" 

Porthos crooks his fingers again — 

Aramis *screams* — but his rhythm doesn't stutter, his — 

"Oh, Aramis, that's — that's so *beautiful* —" 

"I want — I *want* —" And Aramis moans and rides Porthos's fingers faster, urges Porthos to *fuck* him faster — 

"Here, precious, here you go," Porthos says, rubbing Aramis's thigh and *giving* it to him — 

"*Yes*!" 

"What did you want me to do, mm? What do you need?" 

"Don't let me hide!"

"I —" 

"Don't — don't let me be *bad*. I will be your *good* boy, your good little brother always, but if I make a m-mistake — nuh — please —" 

"I won't let you. I won't *ever* let you," Porthos says, and *twists* his fingers — 

Aramis cries out — 

He sounds so *happy* — 

He *looks* — 

He looked the same when he was praying. 

He — 

Porthos groans and *grips* the back of Aramis's thigh, shoving it back up against his chest — 

"*Yes*!" 

"You're driving me *mad*, little brother —" 

"I — I —" And Aramis sobs and tries to spread himself *wider* — 

"Oh, no, no, stay right there, just ride me, *ride* so you're ready for more *faster* —" 

"*Give* me more!" 

"Brother — little brother —" 

"I will take it! I can take it!" 

Porthos growls and *twists* his two fingers again — 

Aramis *shouts* — 

"You have to *want* it, little brother, little precious —" 

Aramis sobs again — "I want you! I want *all* of you!" 

"You want me to take you hard?" And Porthos knows he shouldn't — 

"Yes!" 

"You want me to open you *fast* and hard?" He knows he's making himself *need* this — 

"Please please —" 

"You want me to just ignore whatever pain you're in and *have* you?" He knows he's making *both* of them — 

"I must please my big brother!" 

No. No — "You are. You *are*," Porthos growls, and deliberately *spreads* his fingers inside Aramis — 

"Big brother!" 

He can do this right — 

He *will* do this right. 

"You feel that?" 

"Y-yes — yes! I can take more!" 

"You will, little brother. When *I* say," Porthos says, and starts to thrust with his fingers spread — 

Aramis *screams* — 

"Oh, precious..." 

"I — I'm sorry —" 

"Shh, just take it," Porthos says, and keeps thrusting — 

And, this time, Aramis's rhythm does stutter — 

Stagger to a *halt* — 

"Oh, precious..." 

Aramis *sobs* — "I apologize! I — I —" 

"Shh, let big brother take care of you..." 

"Oh, *God* —" 

And Porthos grips Aramis's lean hip and holds tight, *tight* — 

"*Please*!" 

"Let big brother make everything just *right*," Porthos says, and shoves *in* — 

"Yes!" 

And *in* — 

And *in* — and Aramis starts sobbing again, starts tossing his head — and loosening just a little bit more. 

"That's it, that's my boy, that's... oh, Aramis, I want to fuck you for *years* —" 

"Please please forever!" 

Porthos laughs. "You're right, eating and sleeping are for people who aren't in *love* —" 

And Aramis clenches *tight* around him — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Aramis *howls* — and arches up hard and *beautiful* as he spurts — 

"Oh, *Aramis*..." 

His prick is jerking and twitching and just — 

"Aramis, little brother, I need you, I need you to *always* spend just like *that* —" 

"Big — big brother!" 

"Right here, right *here*," Porthos says, and keeps fucking him, keeps crooking his fingers, keeps milking that little pleasure-knob — 

Aramis *screams* and spurts more — 

"That's beautiful, come on, give me more —" 

"Big — I —" And Aramis sobs and arches higher, prick *spasming* as it spills just a little bit more on that slick belly. 

"Good boy, *good* boy," Porthos says, and eases off a little, going back to just fucking Aramis, just *giving* it to him — 

Pausing to let him *drop* — 

And pant — 

And *moan* — 

"Oh, little *precious*..." 

And moan *more* and *shake* — 

It's so easy to *fuck* him like this — 

A part of Porthos just wants to see how far he can *take* it. He licks his lips and rubs at Aramis's hole with a third finger — 

"Nuh — please — please, I *need* you!" 

"You need more?" 

"Please! I need your cock! I am — I am *loose* for you!" 

And that's not *quite* true... but it's not wrong, either. It's — "Aramis, if I give you my prick now, it'll probably hurt some —" 

Aramis clenches tight and *moans* — "Please. Please give me your beautiful cock," he says, and swipes spend off his own chest before sucking it off his *fingers* — 

Porthos's prick *jerks* — "Right, I'm convinced —" 

Aramis giggles *hard* — 

"I should've *guessed* you'd know how to make a man do what you want, dirty little boy like you." 

Aramis sucks the tips of his fingers — and hands Porthos the little pot with his other hand. His eyes are just... shining. 

"Oh, yeah, I said it. You're *filthy*, precious. You're the dirtiest little boy I know," Porthos says, and slicks his prick. 

Aramis slides his fingers out of his mouth with a wet pop. "Will my big brother discipline me for this?" 

"Mayhap I should..." 

Aramis's prick twitches and gets just a little harder — not that it had softened all that much. 

He's got himself an *eager* little lad. 

He's — 

Porthos growls and squeezes himself. "Mayhap I should discipline you with my prick." 

Aramis gasps — and makes a hurt noise — 

Porthos starts to pull himself up *short* — 

Aramis frowns. "Please, big brother —" 

"I —" 

"I need that very much..." 

Porthos's belly clenches — 

His mind slams into a brick *wall* — 

"Do you, then." His mouth doesn't need a mind.

Aramis nods. "I am very... I've had *no* discipline," he says, and runs his fingers through the spend on his chest again — 

"Stop that." Neither does his prick — 

"Oh —" 

"Hands up to the corners of the bolster. Hold it tight now, little precious." 

Aramis blushes and smiles — and obeys. "Yes, big brother." 

"You've had no discipline, at all?" 

"No, big brother. The other men, they let me run wild." 

And it's not that Porthos can't see the temptation in *that* — 

It's not that Porthos doesn't want to *wallow* in that — 

But. He shakes his head. "That's a shame, little precious." 

"Yes — yes —" 

"You're mine now." 

"Always!" 

"Shh." 

"Yes, big brother, I'm —" 

"Shh," Porthos says, and lines his prick up against that flexing, clenching little pucker — 

Aramis whimpers and *arches* — 

"Get back down now, little precious. I already know how eager you are." 

"Mm!" And Aramis *drops* — 

"There you are," Porthos says, and starts to push slowly, *slowly* — 

"MM —" 

"I'll let you — let you talk and move in a moment, little precious — oh, you're still so *tight* for me at your rim..." 

Aramis *whimpers* — 

"But you needed *this* discipline, too, didn't you?" And Porthos looks down into those wide, beautiful eyes. "You needed to *feel* me." 

Aramis nods and nods and whimpers *more* — 

Porthos pants and pushes *faster* — 

Aramis gasps and *gurgles* — 

"Oh, yeah? It's like that?" 

Aramis opens his mouth wide and *wails*, just — 

Oh — 

Fuck — 

Porthos hadn't *meant* to shove in — 

Aramis wails *again* — 

*Clutches* at the bolster, right hand still wrapped round with his rosary — 

Shudders — just — all over — 

"Oh, Aramis — Aramis —" 

He wails *again* — 

Porthos grunts and spasms and *bucks* — "Fuck — *fuck* — if you're not quiet, I won't be able to control —" 

"Please don't! Please discipline me!" And Aramis beats his head against the bed and tries to spread his legs wider — 

And Porthos bucks *again* — 

"*Yes*!" 

"Ah, *fuck* —" 

"PLEASE!" 

And Porthos is groaning and leaning over, gripping Aramis's shoulders and fucking him, just fucking him — 

"Oh — oh, *God*!" 

Having him — 

"God!" 

Sodding — *giving* Aramis his prick, just like he'd said, just like Aramis had asked, just — 

Aramis wails *again* —

"Oh — *God*, little — little *brother* —" 

And Aramis nods and nods and looks up into Porthos's eyes — 

His own eyes are wide and wet and so hungry, so wild — 

Fuck — 

"D'you *like* it?" And Porthos can't even slow *down* — 

Aramis nods harder, opens his mouth — and *sobs* as he squeezes his eyes shut — 

As he *yanks* on the bolster with both hands — 

All of his beautiful muscle is standing out — 

He sobs again — 

"C'mon, c'mon, *talk* to me —" 

"I love you!" 

And Porthos should've *predicted* something like that, but he's still *slamming* in — 

"My God!" 

And Aramis is still clenching around him — 

Wrapping his long, perfect legs around Porthos's waist — 

"Oh, *Aramis* —" 

"I love — I *love* —" And Aramis lifts his legs higher — and *yells*, just — 

Just *yells*, and it must be for the way it changes the angle, or maybe for the way Porthos can't help but crush him a little now, can't help but drive *against* as much as *in* — 

"*Porthos* —" 

"*Yours* —" 

And Aramis sobs again and looks up at him so needily, so *hungrily* — 

Porthos kisses him, kisses the breath right out of him, kisses and *fucks* it out of him — 

Aramis wails into his *mouth* — 

Oh, little precious, little *precious* — 

Porthos pulls back from the kiss, lips wet and mind desperate, body aching for more of *this*, and — 

No. 

He *yanks* Aramis's arms down from the bolster and pins his wrists, fingers tangling in the rosary, grips Aramis's wrists tight, *squeezes* them — 

Aramis gasps and *bucks*, clenches *tight* — 

Porthos growls and *slams* in again — 

Again — 

Again and *again* and Aramis is wailing more, and Porthos needs that in his mouth, needs to swallow that, eat it, devour everything about his little precious, his little *brother* — 

Please — 

Please just let him always have *this* — 

And this kiss is sloppy, noisy, desperate and sweet as the fuck, as the *crash* of their bodies — 

Aramis is giving as good as he's *getting* — 

Gasping and panting and — fuck, another *wail*, and Porthos has to kiss him harder — 

Grind him right down into the *bed* — 

Bite him all over his *face* — 

"Big — big *brother* —" 

And Porthos is flexing for it, needing, heating up everywhere, dripping sweat — 

His bollocks are so *tight* — 

So — "Not much longer," he pants, *warns*, and grinds in, *in* — 

And Aramis shudders all over and clutches him *harder* with his thighs, with his *arse* —

"Ah — ah *fuck*, little brother —" 

"You must — you must not stop —" 

"Oh — oh, fuck, I *won't* —" 

"You must — oh, *please*!" 

And Porthos catches himself *biting* the tears on Aramis's cheeks before he can think — 

Aramis shouts in his *ear* — 

*Shakes* — 

*Urges* Porthos to fuck him harder with his legs — 

And Porthos can't not, Porthos can't — 

He gives it to his little brother, kisses him all over his face again and again, and fucks him hard — 

Fucks him until all his sounds are choked little gasps and gurgles, until his eyes are rolled up in his head, until his mouth is *slack* — 

Too slack for *kisses* — 

Fuck — 

He *gives* it to his little brother, and he won't stop, he won't, he — 

And then Aramis clenches *viciously* tight and everything — 

Everything *flares* white behind Porthos's eyes — 

He won't *stop* — 

He won't bloody — but that's Aramis's *spend* splashing on Porthos's belly and chest — 

That's Aramis's spend they're *grinding* between them, slicking *up* between them — 

Oh — 

And that's Aramis *praying* again, in breathless *Latin*, and Porthos can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but rut and grunt and — 

Fuck his little *precious*, and — 

And Aramis clenches *again* — 

And then starts clenching *rhythmically*, and Porthos manages two more thrusts, just *two*, before he's roaring into Aramis's blushing ear and spilling and spilling and — 

Oh, right up his little precious's *arse* — 

So good — 

So good — 

He shoves in *deeper* and keeps *spending* — 

Just a little more — 

Just — 

And he can *feel* his body shaking, hear — 

Fuck, his *head* is ringing like he's been *pistol*-whipped and he's panting like a bellows and he's *going* to crush his little brother in about two seconds — no, no. Up. 

Up on his hands, and *not* on Aramis's wrists — 

Aramis makes a small sound when Porthos releases him — 

And keeps *praying* — 

And Porthos has to — kiss him more. 

His eyelids. 

His forehead. 

His shallow smile lines as he whispers in Latin — 

His beautiful *face*, all over, just — 

He's so *flushed*, and glowing with sweat, and he's — 

He looks like a saint after the kind of ordeal they don't write about, or preach about, or — 

Well, no, if saints had *that* kind of ordeal, everyone would want to be one. 

Porthos nuzzles in against Aramis's throat and licks some of the sweat away — 

Aramis *croons* his way through more prayers — and cautiously wraps his arms around Porthos to go with his legs. 

That's — 

Well, that's the kind of message Porthos can go with. 

He settles a little more comfortably on his elbows. He can stay *right* here for the moment.


	3. There's no one like you.

They get up early enough that Porthos can spend a good half-hour being The Son Of The Captain *right* in front of Emil's *with* Emil, being jocular and expansive and all that happy shite — which, with Emil, is actually pretty easy to do. 

Even though they *do* wind up talking about religion, which... 

Well. 

Even before Porthos had *met* Treville, he was still too much his son for that kind of thing to be entirely comfortable. 

Still... he has Aramis. 

Aramis, who guides Porthos right through the parts of the conversation Porthos just doesn't have enough information to follow — 

Aramis, who *provides* that information in useful and *entertaining* little chunks — 

Aramis, who does everything he can to make things easier for his big brother. 

He'd woken up even earlier than Porthos had — *Porthos* had woken up to find Aramis cleaning their weapons with skill and care — and, after they'd had a wash... 

After Aramis had blushed and kept still through Porthos drying him off and dressing him, careful and neat — 

("You... enjoy this?" 

"Every second of it I can get.") 

And Porthos had been sure to put every bit of *hunger* in his voice for that — 

And Aramis had *moaned* for it — 

And then very sweetly — and silently — asked permission to *finish* the process of dressing Porthos, arming him right and proper — and proving that he'd been paying perfect attention to *how* Porthos wore his weapons. 

("Everything, big brother. Everything.") 

Porthos had kissed him then, soft and hungry and just — 

The kiss hadn't stayed soft, and had migrated to Aramis's long, strong throat — 

He hadn't bitten. 

He hadn't *bitten* — 

He'd *wanted* to bite — and, when he'd pulled back, Aramis had been flushed and smiling — 

Thrilled — 

("You felt me wanting you?" 

"Yes, big brother!"

"You want to feel it all the time —" 

"*Yes*, big brother!") 

And so they'd spent just a little more time in Aramis's rooms — 

And Porthos had spent a little more time making himself *felt* — and making all the bloody wonderful twinges and aches and bruises of what honestly seems like a whole *day* spent fucking flare up and make themselves *heard*. 

And felt — 

And *tasted* when Aramis had dropped to his knees — 

And Bravoure is getting annoyed beneath him because of all the — right. Porthos strokes him and rumbles a few words of apology and praise — 

Takes a moment to pay attention to where they *are* — not far from Guy's — 

And then he goes back to petting and rumbling for a moment before checking *specifically* on Aramis — 

Who is smiling just a little secretively over on Confiance, who doesn't seem a bit annoyed with him. 

Hmm. 

"What are *you* thinking about, brother?" 

Aramis *gleams* at him. "You." 

Porthos takes a breath — "Anything in particular?" 

"You were lost in thought..." 

"That I was." 

"It seemed... clear that you were thinking of last night." 

"And this morning, brother." 

Aramis makes a soft noise *while* stroking Confiance. 

"Yeah, brother?" 

"I am, I must confess, trying very hard *not* to simply plot ways to be your *little* brother at all times." 

"I... am trying to remember why that would be a bad thing for you to do." 

Aramis laughs hard. "Porthos." 

Porthos grins. "I know, I know. We have our public faces to think about, even among our brothers." 

"Yes, and —" 

"And you're not *yet* commissioned, so that's another weight on our shoulders, yeah." 

Aramis frowns. "I apologize, brother. I should have worked harder —" 

"You were perfecting your other skills when you weren't trying to figure out *how* to work harder on the skills that needed work. You should've been more blunt about asking for help with some things, but, frankly, our current crop of lieutenants should be better at snagging men like you out of the fold and teaching you by main force." 

"Oh — oh." 

"Yeah, we'll be working on that." 

"You and — the Captain?" 

"Aye," Porthos says, and gives Aramis a *look* to show that he'd heard the return to formality, and that he knows how much it's *disliked*. 

"When the Captain was a lieutenant, there was more active teaching?" 

"That was basically what he did all day, aside from keeping himself in trim. He had the other lieutenants doing the same." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. "He had stopped working to actively improve himself." 

"None of us ever really *stop* that, but, well, the Captain was twenty-nine when he was made a lieutenant — almost thirty. He was at his *peak*, and he knew it." 

"And so he devoted himself to helping other men reach *their* peaks." 

"That he did." 

Aramis shivers. 

"Mm?" 

"I want. I want to be the best I *can* be." 

"You will be." 

"I want to already be the best," Aramis says, laughing ruefully. "I do not want to disappoint you, or the Captain." 

"The only way you could is by not trying your hardest." 

"Oh. Truly?" 

"Aye," Porthos says, and scans the morning streets — 

The stalls getting set up for a day of marketing — 

The pickpockets getting ready for a day of thievery — 

Somewhere, in the Court, Flea is still sleeping. *She* knows it's better to wait until the shopkeepers and various mongers are too busy and harassed to pay attention to *all* the 'customers'. 

She knows — 

"Porthos...?" 

But thinking of her, right now — 

No. 

No. Be honest, the way he would be with Daddy. Porthos turns and smiles ruefully at Aramis. "I was thinking of Flea. My woman. My girl." 

Aramis blinks and shutters up a little — and then stops that, just that quick. "Would you... tell me why?" 

Porthos nods to one of the dimmer — not dark, at this hour — alleys. "There are pickpockets in there." 

"Yes, of course, but —" 

"That's how she makes her money. Or, at least, that's how she used to make it. I don't think of her *every* time I see a pickpocket, or even *most* of the time... but I do when I see a pickpocket after I've been feeling really close to someone." 

Aramis lifts his chin — and swallows. "'Close'?" 

He *had*, in fact, only said it once. Time to rectify the situation. "You're beautiful, and perfect, and I'm in love with you." 

Aramis winces. "I — I'm sorry —" 

"Shh." 

"Porthos —" 

"You think I've never needed those words repeated? *Especially* after Daddy was reminiscing about an old love?" 

"Oh — you have felt... jealous?" 

"'course. And, here's the kicker — I was jealous of *dead* men, for the most part, so —" 

"That's of no consequence, love is love." 

Porthos blinks — 

"But — you said 'for the most part'. What... is there someone else in *his* life?"

And Porthos thinks of Olivier — 

His mouth — 

His Daddy's *reaction* to that mouth every. Single. *Time* — 

He laughs ruefully. 

"Oh — that sounds like..." 

"Hold on, brother," Porthos says, in a *relatively* quiet voice. "This is a *slightly* longer story than we have time for before we settle up with Guy." 

Aramis blinks at him — he needs more. 

"What do you need from me right now, brother?" 

"Does he — does the Captain — he has been *good* to you, yes?" 

"Of course. *Always*." 

"And he has not... disregarded you, or thrown you aside —" 

Porthos grins. "*Never*. He wants... no." Porthos shakes his head. "The ultimate rule about the Captain?" 

"I am listening, brother." 

"And troubled; I can feel it. *Don't* be. Because the ultimate rule about the Captain is that he wants all his boys to be happy, and that he'll move heaven and earth and deny himself absolutely *everything* to make that happen." 

"So... if *you* needed him not to... with someone —" 

"He wouldn't. *Ever*." 

"You are so certain of this!" 

"He built me this way," Porthos says, and shrugs. "But also... I've *seen* him at his worst, and hungriest, and *neediest*. When he's like that... well, when he's like that, *he* almost needs a little discipline," he says quietly. "Or, at the very least, a *lot* of focus. I know — and he knows — that I can give it to him." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully again. 

"'course," Porthos says, "he also knows that the last thing I'd do is hold him *back* from someone he wanted and needed who also wanted and needed him." 

And there's another question in Aramis's eyes, but it stays there while they talk to Guy, and while Porthos plays the politician again, and while the matter of *Nicolas* comes up again, and while Porthos promises to keep his ear to the *ground* again. 

He might have to send one of the garrison boys with a 'secret message' about burnt pastries, if this keeps up. 

Still, they finally do get free, and can talk again — 

"My brother is not a possessive man...?" And that is an *honest* question from Aramis. 

"Your brother is a *very* possessive man," Porthos says, and cups the back of Aramis's neck. 

"Oh, yes —" 

"Just not always in... uh. *Standard* ways." 

"What am I *not* allowed to have with the Captain?" 

"Mm? That's for him — and *you* — to decide, brother." 

"No," Aramis says *firmly*. "It is *not*." 

Porthos *blinks* — 

*Regroups* — 

And squeezes Aramis's neck — 

Aramis moans quietly, subtly — 

And then Porthos slides his hand down to the center of Aramis's back in his own attempt at subtlety. "My mistake, little brother —" 

"Please —" 

"I phrased that wrong."

"Oh. Yes?" 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and scans their perimeter — nothing to be concerned about, other than how old that fish is. "Brothers have Daddies, like I said before. Older brothers don't have more of a Daddy than younger brothers do, though the older brothers might have more *privileges*." 

Another moan — 

Another — 

"There." And Aramis swallows with a click. And swallows again — 

"I'm listening, brother." 

"There... is another brother?" 

Oh — and Porthos wants to shake himself like a *dog*, but mostly what he wants to do... 

He leads Aramis into one of the dim little alleys — *deep* into it — kisses his soft, swollen mouth — 

"Mn —" 

"Beautiful. How *much* do you know about the de la Fère family?" 

"Oh. Oh. There are two sons. The eldest... he is somewhat older than me, is he not? Are they your brothers?"

"They aren't. *Yet*. Not even Olivier, with whom I have a lot of fun training and hunting with and the like — Thomas is a more intellectual sort; I think you'd like each other — because Daddy has done a sodding brilliant job of holding us apart without meaning to." 

Aramis blinks and frowns. "You are... certain... that he didn't mean —" 

"I am," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "In part because Daddy would *like* to share me with Olivier the way he's shared me with you." 

"But perhaps he wants only — only the *sex* — perhaps he wanted only sex between the two of us — *mmph* —" 

Porthos breaks this kiss slowly, and only with a lot of smaller kisses. 

A lot, a lot — 

And, when they're done, they're panting into each other's mouths.

"Porthos..." 

"Daddy doesn't work that way. He is... he's one of the most loving men I've *ever* met." 

"He loves *you* —" 

"Yeah, *me*. The bloke who doesn't do too well with arrangements that are *just* about sex. The bloke who needs... love," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's cheek with his trigger callus. 

Aramis moans and turns to kiss it — 

And then leans in to kiss his *mouth* — 

Porthos kisses back, nods and urges — 

But Aramis pulls back — "Do you love — Olivier? Is he all of the things that you like? Is he all of the things that you like and more?" 

"He's — a little conservative —" 

"Yes?" 

"I think a lot of that is him holding himself back because Daddy has held himself back from being a *father* to him — as opposed to a vague and approving and loving-from-a-polite-distance male relative — in the absence of Olivier's and Thomas's —" 

"Is Thomas what you —" 

"He's a friend. A *close* friend, and a *dear* friend, but — a friend," Porthos says, and searches the worry in Aramis's eyes. And — he doesn't have to be an idiot. "Are you wondering where you fit?" 

"Yes. Yes... big brother." 

And that — was as brave a request as Porthos has ever heard. 

Porthos cups Aramis's strong biceps and leans in enough that they can see each other, have each other, *breathe* each other — "You fit *here*, with me. I take care of you, and you take care of me. The way only we *can* take care of each other, because there's no one else like us, yeah?" 

"No one?"

Porthos grins a little. "*Somehow* I'm not expecting too many more murderous ex-seminarians who pray through a night of *rampant* buggery to fall into my lap, eh?" 

Aramis's answering smile is small and bright. "I am not expecting anyone else like you, myself." 

"Right, then —" 

Aramis takes a shuddering breath. "And — there is more?" 

"There's more. For one thing, there's Daddy, and like I said, he already wants you, and I know you already want him, but I *also* know you need some more time getting to know him. Yeah?" 

"Please — please." 

"You'll have it. As for Olivier... I think —I *believe* — that I can be closer to Olivier than I am now. I'm already attracted to him, and, even though we've never so much as kissed, I believe we could be good lovers for each other, because I also believe that most of the conservatism that has held us back from each other comes from him knowing full well that he's not getting the whole truth of how Daddy feels about *all* of us *from* Daddy, and thus also not getting the whole truth about how *I* feel from *me*." 

"You... follow your father's lead." 

"Yeah. *Especially* for this, because the de la Fère family has been *his* family since he was younger than *us*. Since he was a *boy*. Benoit told you that, right?" 

"Yes, big brother." 

"Right, so here it is — Daddy's going to be opening up and coming clean to Olivier and Thomas *soon*, because, no matter what, it's wrong to lie to them, and, also, Olivier *needs* to join the regiment —" 

"He is... a soldier?" 

"Not *yet*. But he *is* bloody fantastic at every weapon you put in his hands. You beat him out at the guns, but you're the only sodding one who *does*." 

Aramis blinks — "I... but. But his father was the *former* Captain. I must remember that." 

"That you do. Now, his father didn't *want* him to be a soldier — his father wanted him to be a bloody courtier — but one, Olivier wants that about as much as *you* want to be a sodding *priest*, and two, *Thomas* wants it about as much as you want to be a sodding *Musketeer*." 

"The logic is clear." 

"That it is. And one more thing — and the most important thing, because I feel you pulling away from me *inside* —" 

"Oh — no —" 

"*Yes*," Porthos says, and kisses Aramis's cool cheek before pulling back to meet those dark eyes. "Little brother. Olivier's going to be my brother someday, and he's *going* to be riding with me someday — along with you, unless something *really* bizarre happens. But I don't have to be his brother the way I'm your brother. I wouldn't be *anyway*, because you're two *completely* different people. But — are you hearing me? I never have to make love with him, if it would hurt you —" 

"But you *want* to." 

"Yes, but —" 

"Porthos, I will not hold you away from *love* —" 

"Listen to me, little brother. Don't make a decision." 

"N-no —" 

"*Yes*," Porthos says, cupping Aramis's face and kissing his forehead. "Don't make a decision. I can already tell — you want to say 'no, Porthos, don't hold yourself back', and I'd be the same way —"

"*Yes* —" 

"But you don't know him, and you don't know how you'll feel when you *do* know him, and see us all together —" 

"*Brother*. Do you think — is this Olivier such a man that you think I *will* want to hold you away from him?" 

("This is *remarkably* humiliating.") 

And Porthos had pinned Olivier just a bit harder — 

("*Losing*, Olivier?") 

And Olivier had laughed, bright and cheerful for all the quiet of it. 

("I suppose I should embrace the novelty...") 

And Porthos had snickered so hard that he'd almost *lost* the pin — 

Almost lost Olivier's sweat-slick body beneath his own — 

("Ah-ah-ah —" 

"Oh — there's no need to treat me like a *child* —" 

"Where's that embrace?") 

"Porthos? Do you —" 

"No — *fuck*, no. He's *beautiful*, inside and out. Like — well, *not* like you, not at all, but —" 

"Then why must I *wait*?" 

"Because I want you to be *comfortable* — 

"You want to protect your little brother from pain?" 

"Yes, *absolutely* —" 

"You do not trust your little brother to protect himself?" 

Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it again. And frowns. "That was a very mean thing you just did, little brother." 

"You should discipline me for it. Most harshly." 

"Yes, I *should*, but —" 

"But *first*," Aramis says, and cups Porthos's face, "you should let me tell you that there have been countless times in the past twelve hours when I've thought that I had died and gone to my final reward —" 

"Oh — *Aramis* —" 

"And that I cannot, *will* not believe anyone who tells me my Porthos, my big brother, my man who treats me with kindness and love and gentleness, my man who gives me joy and comfort and sweetness, my —" 

"Aramis —" 

Aramis laughs softly — "You may come to regret letting me pray while we make love, big brother..." 

Porthos coughs a laugh. "*Yeah*. When I'm forced to guard a church service with a *raging* erection —" 

Aramis hums. "I'll be happy to assist..." 

"Oh, *will* you?" 

Aramis nods mock-solemnly — 

Porthos laughs and kisses him and kisses him and — 

No, wait — 

"No, no, my Porthos, do not *stop* —" 

"Aramis —" 

"We will say that I am waiting to make up my mind, mm? That will make you happiest?" 

"I —" 

"We will say that I am debating with *furious* fervor about what *other* sort of man my wise and kind and loving brother would *have* as his brother —" 

"*Aramis* —" 

"That I am examining him with all my scholarly faculties intact —" 

Porthos growls. 

Aramis grunts — and bows his head. 

And Porthos kisses Aramis's temples. "Nothing until you say. That's all." 

"Porthos —" 

"And you will *not* say until after you've had at *least* one or two substantive conversations with the man." 

"You... believe he will want to speak to me?" 

"Yeah. 'cause you're *exactly* that brilliant, and fascinating, and open, and loving, and I think you'll have me going to *Mass* within the month." 

Aramis looks up and searches him — 

So wide-eyed and *eager* — 

And Porthos grins and strokes and neatens Aramis's mussed beard. "Strike that. I know you will." 

"Oh... big brother." 

"I love you, little brother. Little *precious*."

"I am *yours*. I —" Aramis shakes his head. "Please never doubt this. Doubt everything *about* me but this!" 

Porthos pushes his hands into Aramis's hair and leans in for another kiss — 

"Porthos..." 

"Mm?" And Porthos kisses Aramis softly, briefly — 

Again and again — 

"Tell me. Ask me." 

"Olivier... he is *not* your brother, yet?" 

"No, not yet. I've wanted him to be for a long time." 

"The wall between you must be so thick, so *high* —" 

"It's *Daddy*." 

Aramis bites his lip and nods. "And your father will tear his own wall down. He must, as he knows you need him to do so." 

"Yeah —" 

"And then Olivier will be yours, as everyone must be yours —" 

"Uh —" 

Aramis kisses him again, soft and dry — 

"Mm —" 

"And I will still fit at your side?" 

Porthos *grips* Aramis by the hair and *pulls* — 

"Nnh —" 

"*Always*, little brother. *Always*." 

"Ohn — fuck. And — and if I have many substantive conversations with Olivier, and I come to care for him as you do —" 

"Oh, fuck, I want that," Porthos says, and growls in Aramis's ear — 

"Oh... you want us all together? Brothers together?" 

"Riding, fighting, fucking — uh. But only if you —" 

"Only if *all* of us desire it so, yes?" 

"Well —" 

"*Yes*?" 

Porthos laughs helplessly and kisses Aramis's ear — 

And his cheek — 

And his beautiful swollen mouth — "Yes." 

"So. I will make this happen." 

"What —" 

"Shh, I said nothing. Let us hurry! We will be late!" 

"Aramis —" 

"Did you see that? I believe that bird had bright green feathers —" 

"*Oi*."

Aramis grins at him, bright and young and wild and — 

And — "You're sodding perfect." 

"Ah, my big brother says so, and he never lies to me. It must be so." 

Porthos laughs into a kiss that's waiting for him — 

A kiss that's deep and sweet and — 

And Aramis is smiling and running his fingertips up and down Porthos's hips — 

*Absolutely* seeking out the bruises — 

Which is the kind of thing — "Mm," Porthos says, pulling back. "That's going to make my prick sit up and take notice in about thirty seconds, little precious." 

"It isn't *already* sitting up?" 

Porthos laughs. "It had a bit of an eventful *day* —" 

"*Porthos*!" 

Porthos laughs harder. "All right, all right, just press a little harder with the fingers of your right hand —" 

"I —" 

"And I'll slam you up against this handy — and greasy — wall —" 

"Oh, God —" 

"And we'll get good and loud and disreputable —" 

"Erm." 

"No? Are you *positive*?" 

"I..." And Aramis gives him a rueful look. "Perhaps you could just allow your little brother to arouse you a *little*?" 

"*Brother*. You're *you*. I'm aroused by your *scents*, and your *mouth* — which is *wonderfully* swollen —" 

Aramis parts his lips. Just a little. 

"Oh." 

And then takes a *sharp* breath — 

"Uh..." 

And *licks* his lips *slowly* while never looking away from Porthos and — 

"Shit. Fuck. Uh." 

— stops. And beams. "Now we are equal." 

Porthos growls and *grips* Aramis through his trousers — 

"*Fuck* —" 

And squeezes *hard* — 

"Oh, *fuck* —" 

And *then* releases him. "*Now* let's go." 

"We are no longer equal —" 

"Well. You *are* my little brother."


	4. Daddy is not immune, nor will he ever put much effort into trying to be.

As it happens, the Captain has to spend *his* morning at the palace, so, barring a look, a raised eyebrow — at *exactly* how close he and Aramis were standing together, Porthos would wager — and that narrow-eyed evil *bastard* smile from *Daddy*... 

They had the morning to themselves. 

Porthos used it to explain *some* of the things that smile could mean — and *has* meant in the very recent past — and then he'd gone over Aramis's conditioning exercises with him, as well as a few of the dirty tricks the conditioning exercises Daddy taught him *directly* happen to work best for. 

Blaireau had asked him point-blank if he was taking over for the lieutenants. 

Porthos had given the man a *look* which would guarantee that, by the end of the day, *every* last man at the garrison would know that the lieutenants were in hot water for all the work they *weren't* doing to improve the recruits. 

("Did you learn that from the Captain, as well?") 

And Aramis's voice had been a little breathless from how hard Porthos had worked him, but still perfectly quiet. Porthos had grinned sharply — 

("Absolutely, little brother...") 

And Aramis had grunted *hard* — 

("I need looser *trousers* —" 

"Did you want to ruin my long, hard days?" 

"I —" 

"Did you want me to suffer?" 

"No!" 

"Did you want me —" 

"*Porthos*.")

And Porthos had laughed hard, clapped Aramis on the shoulder, and nodded toward the shooting range. 

("C'mon. Let's cool you down a *bit* before Daddy gets home."

"Oh thank you —" 

"And, considering how ridiculously well you shoot, let's heat me *up*." 

"Oh, *God* —") 

And Porthos had tried on one of Daddy's evil laughs — 

Right up until Aramis had started shooting. 

Right up until he started doing — this. 

His body is loose. 

His gaze is focused. 

There is — 

Absolutely nothing is distracting him. There was an actual *fire* not forty yards away — a small one, and no one was hurt, but *still* — but Aramis had kept hitting his mark. 

Bullseye after bullseye after bullseye. 

There is... 

Nothing can stop this. 

Porthos has ordered him to shoot faster. 

Porthos has thrown small objects, bouncing them off his legs, his arms, his back, his *head* — 

Nothing can bloody stop him. 

Porthos is very, very, *very* glad for his loose trousers. 

Just — 

And there's an0ther bullseye. *Christ* — "Right, *time*." 

"Mm? Has the Captain returned?" 

"He has, yeah, but he'll need another ten-fifteen minutes to stop wanting to murder the *entire* world after a trip to the palace, and whatever plotting and scheming he had to do to keep everything running smoothly here. That's not why I stopped you." 

Aramis looks at him expectantly, smooth and cool and ready for absolutely anything. 

Well, Porthos tends to be a *little* like that after a bout or six of wrestling — after he's destroyed all *comers* — but this...

No, no, he has an *actual* question. "Brother, why the hell don't you use your *guns* on Madame Angel's problems?" 

"Well, it's very hard on the furniture —" 

"And knives bloody *aren't?" 

Aramis's smile is sharp. "It is... messy?" 

"I say a-bloody-gain —" 

Aramis licks his teeth. Slowly. "Two reasons." 

"*Real* reasons?" 

Aramis inclines his head. 

"Right, I'm listening." 

"The guns discourage — most — single-actors simply by being there, on my hips." 

"Yeah, I can see it. So you're going up against *multiple* parties, or crazy parties, or *drunk* parties, or all-of-the-sodding-*above* parties, and that's all the more *reason* —" 

"To not besmirch my beautiful guns with the blood of the unworthy." 

"Uh." 

"That is the primary reason." 

"Uhh..." 

"The secondary reason is that Madame Angel wishes me not to use them indoors, if at all possible. I receive a very generous bonus for neat, quiet kills." 

Porthos stares. 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

"Right, so how *do* you manage neat-and-quiet when you've got a bunch of violent drunks?" 

"Ah, mostly I do not. It is an either-or proposition in those situations, yes?" 

"I'm not sure I want to agree to this, but all right..." 

"I have become very good at throwing my knives so that they stick in the men's throats —"

"Oh my God." 

"They do not scream — they *cannot*, if I do it correctly, and, if I do it *perfectly*, the arterial spatter is aimed in only one direction before they topple."

"Right, so. I feel I should warn you about Daddy." 

"Oh. He will not like —" 

"He's going to be *very* upset that he can't marry you —" 

Aramis blushes and coughs and laughs — "Porthos!" 

"— because this is just the sort of thing which sounds like a rousing night out to him —" 

"The stabbings?" 

"With the arterial spatter, yeah —" 

"Oh," Aramis says, and looks *thoughtful*. 

"In fact, let's go improve his day a millionfold." 

Aramis blushes *harder*. "I... feel somewhat shy..." 

"Pretend he's yet another old soldier who's rock-hard and randy for you, Because he *will* be. In *minutes*." 

Aramis *gurgles* — and follows right along when Porthos leads — 

And leads them past two lieutenants giving helpful, thorough, and *supportive* lessons to a group of recruits — 

And leads them past Taureau and Hirondelle wrestling using some of the moves Porthos has taught them — nice, that — 

And leads them right up the stairs and down the walk — 

And knows *exactly* when Daddy registers the *two* sets of footsteps, because: 

"This had better be *excellent*. *Good* will still earn my wrath," Treville calls — he hasn't pulled on the Captain. 

He's hoping not to *have* to. 

Porthos grins wide. "*Excellent* is something I can absolutely do... sir." 

Treville *grunts* — "Get in here, both of you." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Yes, sir," Aramis says, in a *much* too subdued voice — 

But then they're in, and the door is closed — 

And Daddy looks exactly as tired as a morning in the palace always leaves him looking, but he's doing a good job of *pretending* to be the Captain — for company. 

So, make things easy. Porthos plants his hands on the desk, leans in, and says: "You were right the first time. He's worth it. He's worth me. He's worth bloody everything." 

For a moment, the Captain-mask stays in place — 

And then it looks *stuck* in place — 

And then Daddy smiles his tiniest, sharpest smile. "And that's what you gave him, son?" 

Aramis inhales sharply — he'd seen the mask come off, and heard it, too. 

"Yeah, Daddy. I did," Porthos says, raising his eyebrows. "He's worth you, too." 

*Daddy* inhales. "Son. This —" 

"Wait, before you say something very logical and responsible and *clean* and, thus, not *you*, Daddy —" 

"*Son* —" 

"Aramis, tell him about Guillaume." 

"Oh. Yes?" And Aramis raises an eyebrow.

"Absolutely. It would be illuminating for *all* concerned," Porthos says, standing straight and crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Guillaume... he was a long-gunner with the French Army. One day, he stopped in my village on his way to pay his commanding officer's respects to his family. I..." Aramis smiles and dips his head. "I was a boy who loved the soldiers always, Captain. I ran to the inn to meet him, and to, perhaps, help with his horse, and to listen to his stories, and, when I saw that he had taken the darkest, loneliest table for his own..." 

"You joined him, Aramis...?" 

Aramis licks his lips — and looks up. "I crawled onto his lap, and I hugged him, and I *begged* for his stories." 

Daddy coughs. "How... old...?" 

"Eleven, sir," Aramis says, and smiles just a *little* sharply. "Eleven and very... hungry." 

"Hmm," Daddy says, and leans back in his chair. "There's an interesting thing about commanding officers and the men they choose to send messages to their families." 

"Yes, sir?" 

"They don't tend to choose the *youngest* or *prettiest* men... and I believe you can guess why?" 

Aramis blushes and smiles ruefully. "Guillaume was very beautiful to me. Very... rough. He was damp from his bath, but he still smelled of smoke and steel and leather and gunpowder. His face was lined with kindness and passion, and I do not think he could've prised me off his lap without the help of the blacksmith *and* the farrier." 

Daddy doesn't laugh *aloud* — but the laugh behind his eyes is bright and loud *enough* — 

Aramis smiles like a *boy* — 

And Daddy pushes back from the desk just enough to throw his feet up on it. "Is that so." 

"Very much so, sir —" 

"You're a man of... catholic tastes, Aramis?" 

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, sir," Aramis says, and spreads his hands. 

Daddy pulls on a judicious look and nods. "You find my son beautiful..." 

"Beyond words. Beyond thought. Beyond... ability." 

"'Ability'?" 

"He drives me to my knees effortlessly, sir," Aramis says, and — doesn't look down, and doesn't blush again, and doesn't show one *lick* of shame or *doubt*. 

Porthos growls — 

And Aramis — drops. 

Just like that. 

Just — right to his *knees* — 

Porthos *blinks* — 

*Daddy* blinks — 

And Aramis folds his hands in his lap... and waits. 

"Well, then," Daddy says. "I think it's your turn to offer some explanations, son." 

"Right, well, first off, he was perfect." 

"'Perfect', mm. Perfectly submissive? Because — somehow — that didn't come up in our initial interview." 

"I will admit that there was some... pushing..." 

"On your part." 

"On my part, yeah —" 

"And at what point did I send you to — no, wait. Aramis," Daddy says, and turns back to *him*. 

"Yes, sir?" 

"Are you Porthos's property?" 

Aramis *grins*. "*Yes*, sir." 

Treville turns back to face Porthos. 

Slowly. 

*Slowly*. 

His feet are still on the desk, though, so Porthos feels all right about the fact that his bollocks are only sweating a little — 

"Son." 

"Yes, Daddy?" 

"How *exactly* did that happen?" 

"Well... I'd have to say that..." 

"Do go on." 

Porthos scratches in front of his ear. "I'd have to say that one thing led to another, Daddy." 

Daddy coughs. 

And coughs again. 

And then laughs *hard*, and *loud*, and — 

"Uh... Daddy, that's going to carry —"

"*Fuck*," Daddy says, laughing more — "And it's still bloody *early* enough — oh, fuck, Porthos, you make everything happen so *fast*." And Daddy grins at him fondly, softly, *happily*. 

"Well, Daddy, we can't have us pissing about." 

"Oh, no, never that." 

Porthos frowns and shakes his head. 

Daddy grins and turns back to Aramis. "What *else* are you to my son? Or what is he to you?" 

Aramis looks back and forth between them with *bright* eyes — and then settles on Daddy. "He is everything to me, sir. I... but he has said that we can be brothers, and that is the greatest thing." 

Daddy sighs like his heart hurts in the best way. "It is. It truly is, son. I presume you'd like to *ride* with your brother someday?" 

"*Please*, sir. I will do everything that it takes — and more — to earn that right." 

Daddy raises a hand. "You *won't* earn that right on your knees, son. Be easy with that. But we'll teach you everything you need to know. It'll happen faster than you think... but it will also feel as though it takes forever," he says, and smiles ruefully.

"Yes, sir —" 

"Tell me..." 

"Yes, sir?" 

"You're older than Porthos by a few years." 

Aramis smiles slyly. "I am his *little* brother." 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Are you, now." 

Porthos grins down at Aramis. "He's my little boy. My little *precious*. Aren't you." 

Aramis flushes — not blushes. "Yes, big brother. All of those things. Everything you wish." 

Daddy gives Aramis a thoughtful look, long and measuring. 

"Sir?" 

"Are you still that hungry little boy inside? Running after the soldiers and hoping for... stories?" 

Aramis moans. "I... please —" 

"Yes or no, son." 

"Yes, sir. Please, sir. Porthos allowed me to be... small." 

Porthos adjusts his prick in his trousers — 

"And what happens if *I* want you to be small, hm?" 

Shit — Porthos *moves* his hand so he doesn't just *squeeze* himself — 

Aramis's eyes are *wide* — 

So *bright* — 

And then he dips his head. "That is Porthos's decision, sir." 

It *is*? No, wait. Porthos moves close to Aramis and cups the back of his neck — 

Strokes and *squeezes* him there — 

"I'll make the decision, little precious, but you have to tell me what you *want* first. Because what *I* want depends on that. *Completely*, for this." 

Aramis moans, long and low and quiet — and nuzzles up against Porthos's leg.

"Oh, that's sweet, little brother. You know I love you being sweet for me..." 

Aramis kisses Porthos's leg, and then turns to face front again. "I want. I want to have a Daddy," he says, and blushes *deeply*. "If... I can."

Oh — fuck — 

"Well, I'm harder than I've been since... oh, yesterday evening, when I had your glorious arse in the air, Porthos," Daddy says, laughing softly.

Porthos snorts. "Did I mention that he's as bloody brave as *you* are? *Fearless*?" 

"I think he might earn that nickname more than I did," Daddy says, and shakes his head, turning back to Aramis. "Do you want *me* as your Daddy —" 

"Please!" 

"— or Porthos?" 

"I — I — Porthos is my *brother*." 

"That he is — right now, son. But he loves you very much — that I can tell from looking — and he would *give* you anything. And love every minute of it. Now —" 

"He. He told me much of your... parenting," Aramis says, hands twitching on his lap until he stills them. "He told me much of what you could give." 

Porthos squeezes Aramis's neck to reward, to reassure. "Every bit of it was true. And every bit of it is what Daddy *wants* to give. *Right*?" 

Daddy growls, staring *into* Aramis — "Yes." 

Aramis whimpers — and crosses his arms behind his back. 

"No, son, not that." 

"N-no?" 

"Stand up." 

"Please —" 

"Stand up, and strip." 

Aramis moans — and *immediately* moves to obey. 

Porthos steps back to give him a little room — 

"Good boys," Daddy says, swinging his legs off the desk and standing, moving round to lean against the front of the desk, and gripping the edge of it to either side of his hips. 

Porthos knows that pose. That's the let-me-watch-you-*work* pose. And — "Daddy, should I —" 

"No, son. You get to slick up those breeches for me — for the time being." 

"Oh — *shit*." 

"And analyze Aramis's living arrangements for me while I wait." 

"Uh. *Really*?" 

"You've interrupted your training for this, son," Daddy says, and here comes the mean bastard smile — 

"Fucking *hell* —" 

"Additionally," Daddy says, and *licks* his teeth. "I find I need to get to know my new boy at *speed*." 

Aramis *grunts* — and blinks at Daddy while fumbling with the laces on his trousers. His braces are already down off his shoulders. 

"Well," Porthos says, "I can tell you that, at this rate, you're going to be able to wring *out* these breeches before long." 

Daddy licks his *lips*. "You always know how to bring joy to my heart, son." 

"I —" 

"Living arrangements. Hop *to*." 

"Fuck — yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and spares a glance at Aramis, who's well on his way to being out of his training clothes. 

Good boy. Daddy first: 

"Rough neighbourhood, made smoother by our boy himself —" 

"How so?" 

"He's been stalking the footpads and doing for them in the various dark alleys —" 

"*Has* he, then," Daddy says, and crosses his legs at the ankles. "Guns or knives, son," he says to Aramis. 

"Knives, sir —" 

"Exclusively?" 

"Yes, sir. And I am — chagrinned but not surprised that you did not ask about swords." 

Daddy laughs softly. "We'll train you up. Don't worry. Lean against the wall to take off your boots and socks. I've always liked the look of that." 

"Yes, sir," Aramis says, and glances at Porthos as he moves to the wall — 

"Yeah, little brother. That's *exactly* why I do it that way all the time." 

Aramis smiles, obviously thrilled for just that little bit of information — 

"We'll tell you everything, little brother," Porthos says. "I promise." 

Aramis shivers and ducks his head. "Yes, big brother," he says, and works on his boots, which, now that Porthos is paying attention, are absolutely perfect for riding, if just a little on the showy side. 

He's past ready to have a horse or two to call his own. For now — "More about the living arrangements, Daddy?" 

"Just a moment," Daddy says, and taps his beard with his fingertip while he frowns. That's — 

Porthos leans against his own patch of wall and resettles his arms over his chest. "What are you thinking, Daddy?" 

"I'm trying *very* hard to see if I can tell where he got that knife-training... and it must have been from *somewhere*, given how confident... no, it would've been multiple sources. More than three or four, even. Who were they, son? In brief." 

"The ladies of custom I frequented in various brothels, and... helped with their... problems —" 

Daddy grunts a laugh. "And?" 

"Some few men I met in taverns who *also* had... problems..." 

"Really, now." 

Aramis removes his second sock, slips it into his boot, shrugs, and then stands straight. "Paris is a city with *many* problems, sir." 

"And you're a helpful man, Aramis...?" 

"I do not care for bullies, sir. They... are a lesser order of creature." 

Daddy narrows his eyes. "Porthos." 

"Yeah, Daddy?" 

"Come over here and squeeze my cock." 

Aramis gasps — 

"*Happily*, Daddy," Porthos says, grinning and obeying at *speed* — and at just the firmness Daddy likes to *begin* a romp with. 

Daddy growls low. "Thank you *very* much, son." 

"Anytime —" 

"The next time I touch my own cock will be the *first* time I shove it into this beautiful boy's mouth." 

"Oh — *please* —" 

"Right, now I'm jealous," Porthos says, exaggerating his own bad-natured growl. "You didn't let *me* suck you until our *third* time." 

"Well, son, you had that jiggly arse to be considered." 

Aramis *coughs* — and giggles. 

Which makes *both* him and Daddy focus very, very hard. 

"Oh —" And Aramis raises his hand to his mouth — 

"Now, little precious, what did I tell you about doing that?" 

Aramis *yanks* his hand back down. "I'm not supposed to! I apologize, big brother! It's only that the Captain looked very angry..." 

"I'm not. At all," Daddy says. "I've just become far too accustomed to holding my face certain ways... that's not important. Come here and get down on your knees again, son." 

"Yes, sir," Aramis says, obeying with grace and speed — and eyeing Porthos's hand on Daddy's tackle. 

"Now. Is that what you want to call me, son?" 

Aramis opens his mouth — and groans, shivering. 

Daddy smiles, small and warm. "I think that was a 'no'." 

"I think you *may* have a point, Daddy," Porthos says, and gives Daddy a nice, firm stroke through his trousers. 

Daddy sighs. "Go on, Aramis. Tell me what you want to call me. Tell me and make me a very, very happy man." 

"I — have not earned —" 

"But you'd like to, wouldn't you." 

"Yes, sir, *please*, sir —" 

"Shh. I'm going to tell you how, and you're going to listen very closely." 

"Mm!" 

"You give me what I want, when I say I want it — or when you know I want it by some other means — so long as it's not something that injures you." 

"Oh —" 

"Shh. You give me what I need, when I say I need it — or when you know I need it by some other means — so long as it's not something that injures you." 

"Mm! *Mm*!" 

"Good boy," Daddy says, and covers Porthos's stroking hand, *squeezes* it. "You let me give you *precisely* what you want and need, even when you *think* it's not what I want. You will be incorrect, unless I tell you otherwise." 

Aramis flushes and *grunts* —

Daddy nods. "You asked for something very large and very specific from me, something I gave to Porthos — and took *from* Porthos — because the alternative was both unthinkable and impossible. I don't think you understand how large the *act* of *asking* for something like that is for a man like me, son. 

"I don't think you understand what it builds. What it demands. What it makes... unthinkable. And impossible." 

Aramis hangs his head and moans low, *low* —- 

"Oh... son. There is, of course, everything else about you. Everything else I'd come to feel about a man so honestly *faithful*, so *pious*, who would still run headlong from the Church and change his name and nearly everything about himself *other* than his faith — his *love* — so that he could devote himself to his *true* calling. 

"To what had *been* his true calling since he was a very young boy, indeed. 

"I am not immune to men — or boys — who throw themselves bodily at the only life I've ever wanted. I never could be. And for the boy to be one so beautiful and talented and *intelligent*... well. 

"When you proved yourself a boy of good taste by *also* throwing yourself bodily at my Porthos... the decision was made. The only question was what, precisely, I was going to do about it. 

"You and Porthos have seen to that. Now haven't you?" 

And Aramis swallows repeatedly, shudders and *moans* — 

"Head *up*, little precious. Let us see you," Porthos says — 

"Oh — *yes*, big brother," Aramis says, stilling and calming at once. It isn't perfect or complete, but — 

It answers a question. 

And Daddy squeezes Porthos's hand to make *sure* he knows it. 

"Got it, Daddy," Porthos says, kissing Daddy's neatly-barbered cheek — his own needs a *little* work — and then turning back to Aramis. "Part of the problem is that you're worried about how *I'll* feel if you call him Daddy, aren't you, even after everything I've said."

Aramis shivers — and nods. 

Daddy hums and goes back to stroking Porthos's hand. "As an aside, I would've loved an invitation to those conversations." 

Porthos laughs dirtily. "I'm shocked and appalled, Daddy," he says, kissing Daddy's cheek again before turning back to Aramis. "I want you to call him 'Daddy', little precious —" 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"I want you to call him 'sir' — or 'Sir' — if that's better for you, though." 

"Oh..." 

"I want you to call him 'Captain' if *that's* better for you." 

"I —" 

"I imagine," Daddy says, "that we could come up with all sorts of names between us... for what *lies* between us." 

Aramis moans *loudly* — 

"Shh," Porthos says. "No one comes up those stairs, mostly, when Daddy and I are alone in here, but you know for yourself that people sometimes lurk *by* the stairs." 

"Oh, yes, big brother! I have noticed this and will be more careful!"

"Good boy —" 

"And, of course," Daddy says, "there are always emergencies," he says, and smiles wryly. "This is not to say I don't revel in making my Porthos howl the *building* down..." 

"But we try to wait until *most* of the men are in the barracks or are scarpered for the day," Porthos says. 

Aramis licks his lips and looks back and forth between them. "The men, they say the two of you argue... vehemently, very much." 

Porthos *looks* at Daddy. 

And Daddy grins down at the floor — and laughs, low and *filthy*. "Say, instead, that we do *other* things vehemently... very much," he says, and looks up, and looks Aramis *over*, slow and wanting. And then the *Captain* brushes Porthos's hand aside, stands up straight and *over* Aramis, and says: "The fact that I want just the same with you has nothing whatsoever with what you *must* do, Aramis." 

And Aramis blinks and swallows and — nods. 

"Do you hear *me*, son." 

"*Yes*, Captain!" 

"Good. You have your freedom with me. You'll have a *magnificent* amount of freedom with me right up until you have your commission, and, even then, you will *still* have more freedom than Porthos. Do you understand *that*, son?" 

Aramis winces — "Yes, Captain." 

"Son?" 

"I... do not want that freedom, Captain." 

Daddy — not the Captain — inhales. But it's still the Captain who says: "It's important to make *informed* choices, son." 

"Am I your son? The son of the Captain *and* the man?" 

Daddy shows his *teeth* — and growls. "Yes." 

Aramis shivers. "Then I am informed *enough*," he says, folding his hands in his lap again and lowering his head. 

"Son..." 

"My Daddy is gentle. My Daddy is kind. My Daddy is *thoroughly* cautious with the hearts and spirits of his men — and his sons — and would never allow them to come to harm if he could stop it from happening."

Daddy reaches for Aramis's hair — and stops himself. 

Porthos half-sits on the desk. "I think you should do it at this point, Daddy." 

"Not... quite yet," Daddy says, and *just* strokes Aramis — 

And pets him — 

And *pets* him while Aramis moans and tries to nuzzle his *hand* — 

Porthos gives up and gives *himself* a squeeze, but — "No, Daddy? Why not?" 

Daddy hums and gives Aramis his hand to nuzzle. "Go on, son." 

Aramis moans softly and starts to reach up with his own hands — and stops. 

"Mm? Oh, I *see*. You can touch me, son. I'll always tell you when you can't."

This moan is throaty and just a little louder. "Thank you, Daddy!" 

"You're welcome," Daddy says, staring *hard* for a long moment before turning back to Porthos. "I would never say not to trust a boy like this, who knows his own heart so well. I would especially never say not to trust him when he says he's ready for something." 

"Right —" 

"More to the point, I would also never say that, in protecting our boys — our *loves* —" 

Aramis moans more and *shivers* — 

"Let me feel more of those sweet kisses, son," Daddy says to Aramis. 

"Yes, Daddy, anything you wish," Aramis says, and his voice is soft and almost drugged-seeming — 

So *sweet* — 

And Daddy hums and looks back up at him. "As I was saying. When we're protecting our loves, we must not be so overzealous that we run over their wishes and wants and *needs*." 

"Right, no, I do know that. Little precious there caught me up short on that, but I've got the *gist*." 

"I know you do, son," Daddy says, and laughs as Aramis kisses and nuzzles his hand over and over. "I know you *had* it before we *met*." 

Porthos blushes — 

And Daddy gazes at him with such hungry *pride*. 

"Fuck, Daddy, you always make me want to get right down on my hands and *knees*," Porthos says, giving himself another squeeze. 

Daddy growls. "Well, it *is* where you belong, son," he says, and growls a laugh. "Sometimes," he says, and starts petting Aramis with his other hand — 

Aramis makes blissful little noises — 

"Oh, 'course —" 

"There's one thing that trumps the need to trust our boys, the need to not be overprotective... well. All of it." And Daddy turns to Porthos with his eyebrow up. 

Porthos blinks. "I'm listening." 

"Honesty, son. We have to be honest, and clear, and..." Daddy sighs and shoves his hand into Aramis's hair, gripping tight. 

Aramis moans and *immediately* takes three fingers of the other hand into his mouth — 

And Daddy grunts. "Honesty is everything, son. And *gives* you everything." 

"I — I knew that, too —" 

"But in this *context*. Sometimes honesty must be used as a... hmm. Brake," Daddy says, smiling ruefully and tugging *both* hands away from Aramis. "I know there's more you need to know about me, son." 

Aramis blinks up at Daddy in a *daze* — 

Porthos isn't doing much *better* — but he should be. And he *will*. Porthos growls — "Little brother." 

And Aramis *jerks*, blinking and focusing on *him* just that fast. "Yes, big brother? What do you wish? I will give you everything!" 

"That you will, little precious. I know it like I know my own guns." 

"Oh —" And Aramis *beams* at him — 

Porthos grins back. "Good boy. Now you had questions for Daddy. Things you needed to know, and see, and understand before you gave yourself to him. You see now that he *will* answer those questions, don't you?" 

"*Yes*, big brother! I... will ask now?" 

Porthos nods — 

And Daddy moves back around in front of Aramis, leaning back against the desk and gripping the edge again. "Ask everything, son. Let me ease you. And let me get to know you *this* way." 

"Yes, Daddy," Aramis says, and studies him for a long moment. He's blushing and panting a little — 

He's sodding *gorgeous* — 

Porthos growls more because he *has* to — 

Aramis *jerks* and turns to him again — 

Porthos smiles and shakes his head, nodding to Daddy once more. "His turn, now. I'm just hungry for you." 

"Oh — but —" 

"We both are," Daddy says, and smiles that *devouring* smile, the one that shows just a *little* bit of his teeth — "Will you feed us?" 

Aramis *moans* — "Yes! Please! Let me —" 

"Ask. Questions," Daddy says, firm and low.

"I — fuck!" And Aramis giggles like the boy he is, smiling bright and wide. "You have strange definitions of being fed, I think," he says, and cocks his head to the side, *teasing* — 

Porthos continues fulfilling Daddy's order to slick up his breeches — 

And Daddy smiles a little wider. A little hungrier. "Do I, now."

Aramis licks his lips. "Oh, yes! I see that your cock — and your beautiful son's cock — are very hard, Daddy —" 

"That they are —" 

"Are you sure I should not feed you that way? Are you sure I should not ease *you*?" 

Daddy laughs low and *happy*. "Perhaps you should..." 

Aramis *beams* — 

"... in just a bit." 

Aramis's face falls. "Oh, Daddy, no, no —" 

"Shh. Ask me questions, little one." 

Aramis inhales sharply and blushes more — 

"Ask me *other* questions. Make me need you," Daddy says, in that low and *rumbling* voice. "Make me *crave* you... even more than I already do."

Aramis makes a soft noise and balls his hands into *fists* — 

"Do it." 

Aramis *grunts*. "Yes, Daddy. I — is Porthos the son of your heart? Or did you adopt him because there is no way for you to marry?" 

Porthos chokes on a breath — 

And Daddy hums a laugh. "Porthos taught me not to limit myself that way, son." 

Porthos chokes a little more — 

And Daddy whacks him on the back. 

"*Thank* you, Daddy —" 

"You're *quite* welcome... son," Daddy says, laughing more, and then nodding to Aramis. "In all seriousness, son, Porthos was the son of my heart well before we finished making love the *first* time, despite the fact that I was catastrophically drunk and even more catastrophically grief-stricken for the three men who I had, previously, thought of as the loves of my life. Porthos shone through everything. And so it didn't take long for me to realize that he was even more to me than the son of my heart — that I had lost the ability to make distinctions like that, assuming I ever had it in the first place, which is something I honestly couldn't tell you. More?" 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. "The men who *had* been your only loves..." 

"Kitos. Reynard. Laurent. And I'm quite sure you knew those names already..." And Daddy's eyes are sparkling *just* a bit — 

And Aramis ducks his head and blushes more. "I had to know you, Daddy." 

"Mm. The kind of man I was?" 

"Yes, Daddy." 

"The kind of company I liked to keep?" 

"That, too!" 

"Whether or not I buggered the stableboys whilst everyone else turned away?" 

"Well, Daddy, I had already discovered who was buggering the *kitchen* boys!" 

Daddy smiles very, very sharply indeed. "And *that* is why Campagnol disappeared so precipitously. Isn't it." 

Aramis smiles *coquettishly*. "The kitchen boys, they were very helpful cleaning up the mess I made." 

Daddy *barks* a laugh. "Tell me all about it, little one." 

"He went to the kitchens nearly every night — very late, and in *most* of his leathers, which was strange!" 

"That it was. Unless, of course, he wanted to be able to look 'respectable' at speed." 

"Oh, yes! I could not follow him right away, because of my own training needs, but I was suspicious. So, on the first night that I *could* follow him, I *did*. And I saw him force the boys — and they *are* only boys, only *children*! — to undress him, and touch him — I did not wait." 

Daddy shows even more teeth. "Tell me all about it." 

"He was not expecting an attack. He was clearly not expecting *anyone*, and so it was easy to *yank* him away from the boys, slam him against the wall, and stab him in both thighs," Aramis says, and smiles brightly. "My aim was *good*, Daddy!" 

Daddy hums again. "Was it? Not much arterial spray?" 

"No! Only a little spatter from the left thigh! He bled, mostly, down into his boots, just as I had been taught would happen!" 

"You'd never tried that before?" 

"I had practiced the motions many times, on many low men —" 

Daddy clears his throat — 

"Yes?" 

"No, no, go on, little one," Daddy says, and smiles warmly — and *looks* at Porthos. 

Porthos shrugs. "Told you what I had was excellent." 

Daddy sighs. "I think I might shed a tear soon." 

"Better watch that, Daddy. The men'll think you're getting soft." 

"Not if they take a gander below my belts, son," Daddy says, and turns back to Aramis. "Campagnol is bleeding into his boots." 

"Most copiously!" 

"Mm. Now what?" 

"Well, he did *try* to attack me —" 

"The man didn't lack worth as a *fighter*. Go on." 

"But he quickly began to beg for a surgeon, as he knew his life was bleeding away. I told him he would do better to pray for a priest —" 

Daddy *snorts* — and coughs. "Yes, son?" 

"Oh, yes! And then I listed the many torments it is presumed that buggerers suffer in Hell. I whispered these in his ear, of course. I did not want to scare the children." 

Porthos snickers — 

Daddy *wheezes* — 

Aramis beams and looks back and forth between them. "I did well?" 

"You get more bloody perfect by the *minute*, little precious," Porthos says —

"That you do," Daddy says, grinning and *adjusting* himself in his trousers. "What did you do with the *body*?" 

"It would not have been subtle enough to give him to the carters for such things, and of course I could not leave him in the gutter!" 

"Oh, 'course not, yeah." 

And Daddy nods mock-judiciously — 

Aramis *giggles*, breathless and so happy, so — 

Porthos growls and adjusts *himself*. "I love you, little brother." 

"I love *you*! You have made everything better, everything more beautiful and more joyful!" 

"I want that for you — for *all* of us — every sodding day." 

"I will make it happen! I will find *every* way to make it happen," Aramis says, nodding and leaning toward them — 

And *Daddy* growls and strokes his own thighs in that *restless* way — 

"Oh — Daddy?" 

"For now... the body." 

"Oh — yes, Daddy. The kitchen boys woke the stableboys, who helped me get Campagnol strapped to his horse Élodie — she handled the blood scents very well! — and out of the garrison. 

"From there, it was easy to get him to the Seine, and get Élodie back to the stables," Aramis says, and then hangs his head. "I do apologize for taking a garrison horse without permission —"

Daddy clears his throat again — 

"— but I thought it would be better for morale if Campagnol simply... disappeared." 

"Even if you did leave us with the mystery of why he would leave his bloody *horse* behind," Porthos says, and snorts. "Oh, little brother, that was... well, no, Élodie's too brilliant in the field to just *sell* her." 

"Yes, you see!" 

"And," Daddy says, and strokes his beard, "most — if not all — of the hostlers would've recognized her."

"*Very* true," Porthos says. "By the way, Guy *really*, *really* wants us to know that Nicolas the baker —" 

"Is sore, yes, I figured he would be. You can send him a hint about how to get back in my good graces, son, but if he hasn't improved dramatically by the next time I give him a random test?" 

"He's done. I hear you, Daddy." 

Daddy gives him that proud look again —

That look-what-an-incredible-man-you-are-and-how-much-better-you're-getting-every-*day* look — 

Porthos looks down and smiles helplessly — 

And Daddy cups the back of his neck and growls. "My boy. I'll never let you go." 

"Yeah, Daddy, please don't —" 

And Daddy *yanks* Porthos in and kisses him hard, wet, *deep* — 

Fucks his mouth *immediately* and makes Porthos sweat and moan and open up all *over* — 

Makes him feel exactly how *sore* his *arse* is — 

Fuck — 

How much *more* sore he'd like it to be. 

Right now. 

Porthos moans into Daddy's mouth, nods, *takes* it — 

*Grunts* when Daddy cups the front of his throat — 

When he starts *opening* Porthos right *up* — 

Porthos doesn't have permission to *help* — 

He's still *kissing* Porthos, still biting and teasing and *fucking* Porthos with that tongue — until he isn't, and Porthos's tunic is open, and Daddy's eyes are narrow and hot, and Porthos is ready for bloody anything. 

Everything. 

Right *now* — 

Aramis whimpers *quietly* — 

"I feel precisely the same way about my Porthos as you do, you know, Aramis," Daddy says, and *grips* his own thighs as he turns back to face Aramis. "He's made everything brighter. He brought light back into my life, when I was convinced that the rest *of* my life would be one hopefully *brief* walk into greater and greater darkness."

Aramis shudders and inhales sharply — "Yes? I — I have been too grasping? I will not take — 

"Shh. No, you have not," Daddy says, firmly and *quietly*, before Porthos can say *anything*, but — 

"You haven't, little precious. It's all right. Daddy just needs us both. Right?" 

Daddy narrows his eyes. "You make me... *both* of you make me... mm. But Aramis had a question about my *lost* loves that I believe will touch on this nicely." 

"I — but —" 

"Ask it." 

Aramis clenches his hands into fists again, digging the knuckles in against his own thighs. He's *hard* in his trousers, and — "Yes, Daddy! I — did you ever feel for them — was there ever anything like *this*?" 

"Were any of them my boys, do you mean?" 

Aramis nods once, obviously *straining* — 

Daddy smiles like the bloody killer he is. "You know what they called me, don't you, little one?" 

"Fearless!" 

"That's one of the things." 

"And — meneur. Ringleader. And... and many other things that perhaps do not fit —" 

Daddy's laugh is ribald and wry. "They called me nineteen kinds of bastard before breakfast, and that's only if they'd grown tired of finding different ways of calling me an arsehole, son." 

Aramis giggles — 

And Daddy winks. "But. Ringleader. Has a certain cachet, doesn't it." 

"Yes, Daddy! You were always a leader of men!" 

Daddy wags his head back and forth. "You can take it that way." 

"How else *should* I take it?" 

Porthos and Daddy share a *look* — 

And Aramis *bounces* on his knees — 

Just — 

"Please tell me!" 

Daddy grins at Aramis. "Will you bounce like that on my cock?" 

"Right now if you wish it, and if my Porthos says that all is well —" 

"Mm. I'll keep that in mind. But first: A ringleader is a *bad* leader of men, son." 

"Oh — no!" 

"A *ringleader* is a man who'll lead his men into all *sorts* of things they *shouldn't* be led into — and then do it all again the night after that, and the night after *that*, until they get caught, and *punished*." 

"But it is all in good fun, is it not? *Was* it not?" 

"That it was. But we were commissioned men of the King, Aramis. You will have your freedom, as I've said —" 

"I do not *want* it!" 

"You'll have *precisely* as much freedom as *I* decide to *give* you," Daddy says, and *pins* Aramis with a *look* — 

"Oh — yes, please!" 

"That's *better*," Daddy says, and laughs. "You'll have to choose how to *use* that freedom, little one. You'll have to choose who precisely you are —" 

"Porthos's brother and your *son*!" 

Daddy *eyes* Aramis with a bit of a *quirked* expression. 

Porthos cuffs his arm a little. "You *might* give a thought to what sort of lectures you have and *haven't* had to give *me*. *Sir*.

Daddy *grunts* — "When you say that... you're never *just* calling me your Captain." 

"No. I'm not. *Sir*." 

"When you say that, you're reminding me that I adopted you, that I... that you chose to *let* me adopt you." 

"That I am. *Sir*." 

Daddy nods slowly and thoughtfully, and then turns to look at Aramis. "You're reminding me that I haven't *been* a ringleader in quite some time... and that I don't have *mates* to —" 

"Sir — *Daddy* —" 

Daddy puts up a hand, and smiles wryly. "It's not a bad thing, son. How could it be?"

Porthos frowns and searches Daddy — 

He can *feel* Aramis doing the same thing — 

And Daddy nods to Aramis. "In belated answer to your question, son, I couldn't quite have this with Laurent, because I was his little brother, and he was always a trifle too *correct* to make that relationship into something which could satisfy the hunger within me. As for Kitos and Reynard, they were my brothers, and my lovers of the *spirit*.

"We habitually made love with our different women and boys in the same rooms, then wandered off to be alone together again. We *slept* together. We healed each other's wounds, inside and out, and, when it came to Reynard... well. The question of brotherhood was sometimes answered in ambiguous ways. Hugs that led to kisses. Kisses that lingered too long. Declarations whispered, shouted... 

"But not like this. 

"Perhaps it should've been. 

"You're not so different from Reynard, just as Porthos has some few things in common with Kitos. As an example, Porthos, like Kitos, has the remarkable and unshakable ability to force me to see precisely what's in front of my face, even when I'm doing everything in my considerably bull-headed power not to. 

"Kitos told me more than once that I asked for too little from Reynard —" 

Porthos sucks in a breath — "You never —" 

"I never told you that. I know. Mostly because I didn't want to think about it, and put it into a context with every pointed question *you* had asked about my relationships with those men, and every even *more* pointed *comment* you had very graciously not made." 

"Daddy —" 

"I didn't want to think about Kitos's eyes when he said those things, son. And how much they looked like yours when you want me to touch you." 

"*Shit* —" 

"We are none of us entirely fearless, little one," Daddy says. "Not for all things. There will always be something that stops us cold, something that leaves us shivering in our beds..." He shakes his head. "Reynard liked it, very much, when I took absolute control, too — even though he planned easily half of our capers. *Reynard* was who *named* me Meneur, just as Kitos named me Fearless. 

"They were asking me, in the only way they knew how, to be the man who could touch them. Who *would* touch them." 

"Aw, *Daddy* —" 

Daddy holds up a hand again. "So, when you ask me if I had *this* before, Aramis..." He smiles wryly. "The question is a difficult one —" 

"I am sorry! I am very sorry!" 

"Shh. I said it was difficult, not against the rules. It's an *important* question, little one. It's something you need to *know* about me. It's something that will allow *us* to be the best *we* can be." 

"*Oh* —" 

"I made *mistakes*, boys," Daddy says, and looks back and forth between them. "I let fear and doubt guide me when I should've trusted my instincts — and my loves. I will not ever do that again. Do you understand what that means?" 

Porthos *grips* himself through his trousers. "That you're ours?"

"That we are *yours*!" 

Daddy smiles and licks his teeth. "Yes and yes," he says, standing straight and looking over the desk — "Porthos, take those books and put them over on the chair for now." 

"Yes, Daddy —" 

"Aramis, up and put that parchment in the third shelf — yes, in that cabinet. Good boys. Now then. I think it's time to discuss *logistics*." 

"Yeah, Daddy? Planning something tricky?" 

"Not at all. But Aramis's arse needs to be in a position that will allow me to shove my face in it without breaking my neck *or* my knees, and, frankly, the longer you both make me wait for that, the crankier I'm going to get."

"Right, I —" But Porthos can't finish without snickering — 

And Aramis is *giggling* — 

And Daddy crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows. 

"We uh." Porthos nods to Aramis. "He pointed out that old soldiers had a *habit* of shoving their faces up there."

Daddy raises his eyebrows higher. "And you *didn't*? Son. I'm disappointed in you." 

Porthos coughs. "Daddy —" 

"No, it's too late for apologies and excuses now —" 

Porthos wheezes — 

Aramis giggles *more* — 

"And as for *you*, son," Daddy says, turning to Aramis — 

"Oh — yes, Daddy?" 

"You're to get that arse — and the rest of you — up on my desk *immediately*." 

"I — on my hands and knees?" 

"*Precisely*. It's time to desecrate this office even more." 

"Bless you, Daddy," Porthos says — 

"You're still on punishment —" 

Porthos *chokes* on a laugh — 

And Daddy grins, wide and bright and pleased. "My boy. My *boys*, plural," he says, and shakes his head as Aramis climbs up — 

As he gets his arse pretty much *right* at head-level — 

"Now *that* is an inspiring view," Porthos says, and then eyes the door. "Maybe we should wedge a chair under there?" 

Daddy gets that *wildly*-dirty look in his eyes. "Feeling a mite intimidated by the situation you find yourself in, son?"

Porthos snorts. "*Yes*." 

Daddy *laughs* dirtily. "In case of emergency," he says, and hands Porthos the key to his office door -- rarely used when the Captain is *in* his office -- without looking away from Aramis's arse, "even the Captain's door may be locked." 

"Oh, 'course," Porthos says, and goes to put the key to *use*. "What's the emergency?" 

"The Captain has an acute swelling —" 

"Oh, fuck —" 

And Aramis giggles and *wriggles* — 

Until Daddy gives him a hard *smack* to the arse — 

"Oh, *yes*!" 

He and Daddy both pause. 

And lick their lips — 

"You didn't do this, either, son?" 

"No, Daddy —" 

"Why the bloody hell *not* —" 

"Well, see, he started praying when I was tossing him off —" 

"What." 

"And that was *ridiculously* hot —" 

"Son —" 

"No, I can see that look on your face, and I *know* you've got doubts, but he was *sucking on the rosary beads* —" 

Daddy grunts. 

And blinks — 

They both turn to look at Aramis — 

That reddening-up handprint on his arse — 

Aramis *swivels* his hips — 

Porthos's prick tries to break for *freedom* — 

"Perhaps we could all pray together...? I would like to do this with my new family!"

Daddy looks like somebody just asked him to figure out how to outfit the regiment from behind enemy lines, in winter, with half his foreign agents dead or captured. 

Porthos can help: "Remember, Daddy — you can do this with Aramis *while you're fucking him*." 

And the sun comes out on Daddy's face again. "Well, son, I feel *much* better about the fact that you've left that rosary on, now," he says, and *grips* Aramis's arse — 

"Oh — it never comes off!" 

"Not ever?" 

"No, Daddy! My God is with me at all times!" 

Daddy hums. "Some of us are used to asking our God to look the other way, from time to time..." 

"Oh, but — there is no need! My God is a God of love and — and —" 

"Hmm...?" 

And yeah, that hum was *directly* into Aramis's arse. 

Porthos moves round the front of the desk to see how Aramis is doing — 

"I..." 

"Mm-hmm...?" 

Certainly, Daddy is doing all right, back there, judging by those lapping and slurping noises that are making Porthos's hole clench in *fond* memory — 

*Many* fond memories — 

"I — my... nnn..." And Aramis is blinking — 

Licking his lips — 

Dewing up with sweat — 

Daddy pulls *back* with a slurp. "What was that, son?" 

Aramis looks *panicked* — "Daddy! I! You — *please*!" 

"Hmm. Porthos? Care to translate?" 

Porthos makes a show of tugging at his beard. "Well, I think our little lad is distressed, Daddy." 

"Is he, now," Daddy says, and *kisses* Aramis's hole with a wet little *smack* — 

"AHN —" 

And does it again — 

"Please!" 

"I *think* he might be having trouble concentrating, for some odd reason." 

"That *is* strange," Daddy says, or possibly something about Spain. It's hard to tell, being as how it's directly into Aramis's arse. 

"I mean, he might just need something to help him focus, Daddy." 

Daddy hums loud and *long* — 

Aramis cries out and *shakes* — 

*Grips* at the desk — 

*Shouts* — 

"Got him by the prick, now, do you, Daddy?" 

Daddy says — something. 

Between the muffling and Aramis's groans and *clawing* at the desk — 

Yeah, impossible. 

Still, also an affirmative, going from what *Porthos* can see — 

And Aramis is panting — 

Moaning — 

Starting to *rock* so gently back against Daddy's face — 

"You like that, little brother?" 

"I — I — *please*!" 

"You like it when Daddy eats your arse?" 

Aramis strains and shudders and moans *desperately* — 

"Answer me, little precious. Tell me all about it..." 

"I! I like it! I like — *please* — I want — I — I will *spend*!" 

"You will, eh? If Daddy keeps eating you?" 

"Yes!" 

"Keeps *tasting* you?" 

"Oh — oh, big *brother*!" 

"Do you want that? Mm?" 

"*Please*!" 

"Or do you want to spend some other way?" 

And Aramis's expression is wide-eyed, hungry, needy — 

Daddy is *growling* into his arse — 

Heating *himself* up — 

Porthos *knows* what Daddy's giving himself a craving for — 

Giving himself an *ache* for — 

And Aramis is rocking faster... 

Panting and hanging his head — 

"Head up, little precious —" 

"Nuh — big — big brother —" 

"Do you *know* what you want, little brother?" 

"I want — I want *more*!" 

"More of everything?" 

And Aramis pants and pants and groans — 

Shakes — 

"I will — I will give my family — what they want —" 

"That's *you*, little precious. That's you where we can see you, smell you, feel you, hear you, *taste* you —" 

Daddy *slurps* again — 

Aramis shudders and *whines* — "Daddy — please, *Daddy* —" 

"You want him to suck your little hole more?" 

"Oh — *God*!" 

"Say it. Say what you want, little brother." 

"Please!" 

"Do it for me." 

Aramis gasps and *focuses* on Porthos for a heart-stopping moment that's just — 

His hair is getting lank with sweat, sticking to his face in places — 

His swollen lips are parted — 

His eyes are shining and *wide* — 

"Anything — my big brother — I want my *Daddy*!" 

Porthos shivers — 

Daddy makes a sound like a growling *groan* — 

Right into Aramis's *arse* — 

"How d'you want him, little brother? What should he do to you?" 

"I — I — I want him to fuck me, to *have* me —" 

"To claim you?" 

Aramis makes a *small* sound — 

"Say it, little brother. *Say* it." 

"Claim me, both of you *claim* me, and then I will not be alone, even when I go back to my empty — empty *rooms* —" 

"And if you don't go back there, at all?" 

Aramis gasps — "Big *brother* —" 

"If you move in with us, instead...?" 

And Daddy pulls back and kisses Aramis hard — 

Kisses Aramis up and down his cleft, by the sound of those *hard* sucking smacks — 

"Ah — *ah* —" 

And then Daddy pulls back all the way and slaps Aramis's *arse* — 

"*Please*! I'm —" 

"Shh, son. I know you're going to be tempted to apologize," Daddy says, and pants a little — 

Licks his lips — 

Reaches up to stroke Aramis's *back* — "You're going to be tempted to do a lot of things." 

"I — I made my big brother — offer —" 

"You — *fuck*. You think that, little precious? Really?" And Porthos moves in to cup Aramis's beautiful face — "Little brother... you didn't make me do anything I wasn't going to do already." 

"But — maybe not so soon —" 

"Well, I don't normally talk about sleeping arrangements in the middle of *sex* —" 

"But it's more than that," Daddy says, and keeps stroking Aramis. "Isn't it, son." 

Aramis lowers his head — 

Obviously tries *not* to drag his cheeks against Porthos's palms — 

Porthos growls and cups his face more firmly, tilts it up — "You're not to try to get away from me — remember?" 

Aramis winces. "Yes, big brother. I'm sorry, big brother." 

"You're mine. You're my *responsibility*." 

"And. And you like that. That is a good thing." 

"It's the best thing. A man with no responsibilities is a man with no home." 

Aramis blinks rapidly. 

"Yeah, think about it, little precious. Think about how cold you were with no one to take care of — as much as you were with no one to take care of *you*." 

"Oh — yes —" 

"Now magnify that a bit —" 

"My big brother... he needs to care..." 

"Your big brother," Daddy says, "will often cosset and nanny *me* when he hasn't gotten enough of that from other sources." 

Aramis wets his lip and considers more — 

More — 

And then he turns enough that he can see Daddy. "He will try to be your wife as well as your son?" 

Porthos *coughs* — 

"I think that's a fair assessment —" 

"*Daddy*!" 

"Certainly, he acts as one hell of a helpmeet when I need him to be... but *he* needs more, Aramis." 

"He needs... a boy?" 

"This family needs someone small, and young, and hungry," Daddy says, and tugs at his mussed beard. "This family needs someone we can gather round, and warm with our bodies, and care for *always*." 

Aramis flushes dark. "My Daddy... also..." 

"Your Daddy is hungry for you, son. Will you feed me?" 

Aramis moans. "Please please tell me *how*!"

Porthos growls and grips Aramis's chin — 

"Ahn —" 

— and *yanks* him round to face him. "I'm hungry, too, little precious. I'm bloody *starved*." 

"I will feed *both* of you! Please tell me — show me — I will be your good boy *always* — *mm* —" 

And kissing Aramis is so good, so *good*. Pulling him into it, biting his lips, sucking his lips, licking his whole mouth — 

"Yes — oh, yes, please — *mm* — *mmph* — I love you! — *MM* —" 

So *good* — 

Better in front of Daddy, so he can show Daddy just how perfect his boy is, just how well he opens up, accepts, *gives* — 

And Daddy is right there, thumb on Porthos's cheek — 

*Lightly* pressing — 

Asking, not ordering. 

Asking Porthos to make a *judgment* call, as to whether Aramis would like a kiss from the man who'd just eaten his *arse*. 

And the thing is, the answer to that question is murky, at best. 

But the answer to the question of whether Aramis would like a kiss from his *Daddy* isn't in the least. Porthos pulls back, showing Daddy the smaller kisses Aramis likes, the smaller kisses that get Aramis used to separation, the smaller kisses that gentle their boy like a horse and let him be led to his pleasure — 

Porthos wants it — 

Porthos *needs* it — 

And he's going to have it. 

He pulls back slowly, and the dreamy look on Aramis's face feels like a reward. He licks his lips. "Daddy's turn, little brother." 

"Mm? What?" 

"I need your mouth," Daddy says, low and *hungry*. "Will you give it to me?" 

"Oh — oh, yes! Oh, *yes*," Aramis says. "I will suck you however you *wish* —" 

Daddy laughs and presses his thumb to Aramis's mouth. "Not yet." 

"Mm?" 

"I want... a kiss." And Daddy raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis's eyes are immediately heavy-lidded again, dreamy — 

He kisses Daddy's *thumb* — 

He *licks* Daddy's thumb — 

Daddy tugs his thumb away — "Is that a yes, little one?" 

Aramis nods and crawls the little distance closer he *can* while still on the desk. "Please, I would like a kiss. I would like my Daddy to kiss me hard, to kiss me deep —" 

Daddy growls — 

Aramis gasps — "Would my Daddy like his boy to be quiet?" 

"Not in the *least*," Daddy says, and *strokes* Aramis's mouth with his thumb — 

"Mm —" 

"Talk more. Tell me what you want. Be... detailed." 

Aramis *beams*. "I want my Daddy to take his pleasure of me —" 

"How." 

Aramis wriggles. "I want to be *fucked*! My big brother, he fucked me so *hard* last night —" 

"Did he, now." 

"Oh, yes, Daddy. He made me spend while he was opening me with his thick, rough fingers, and then he shoved his cock *deep* —" 

"Did you scream?" 

"I made *many* sounds for my big brother, Daddy! I do not know what all of them were..." 

"Mmm. That's fair," Daddy says, and turns to *him*. 

Porthos grins. "He *wailed*. Like a little boy." 

Daddy growls *hard* — 

"My Daddy does not like —" 

"Your Daddy wants to make you make that sound *immediately*." 

"Oh, yes! Oh, yes, please! But also, you could fuck my throat — my big brother did that, too, and I was good for him, he said I was —" 

"I'm sure you were. Do you like that? Being fucked very, very hard?" 

"Yes, yes, *please*. I must be taken, I must be —" And Aramis blushes hard, stops and *pants* — 

"Say it, son. You have to be honest here." 

Aramis pants again — 

Again — 

*Again* — "I must be claimed, I must be — be — my family must take me, have me, show me my *place*! Please, I do not mean to demand so *much* —" 

And Daddy kisses Aramis *hard* — 

"*Mm* —" 

Daddy grips him by the hair with one hand and the *throat* with the other — 

Aramis moans and clutches the desk, claws at it, flushes *dark* — 

"You're so beautiful, little precious..." 

Aramis moans *higher*, presses into Daddy's *touch* — 

"That's it, that's just right..." 

Aramis nods and nods — 

Daddy pulls back and sucks Aramis's swollen-plush lips — 

"Mm — *mm*, Daddy — " 

And Daddy kisses him again, just like that — 

"Daddy needs your mouth, little precious, needs to get it *ready*." 

Aramis *jerks* and blinks rapidly — 

And Porthos laughs just a little dirtily. "You have to be good and sensitive for us, precious. You have to be soft and *tender*." 

Aramis *groans* — 

Wriggles more — 

"What's that? Your arse isn't tender enough even after Daddy's been at it?" 

"MM!" 

Porthos laughs. "Let's do something about that, mm?" 

And Daddy growls a laugh into Aramis's mouth and pulls back with those smaller, softer kisses. 

And bites — 

And sucks — 

And more *bites* — 

"Mm — nuh — please, Daddy —" 

"We *definitely* have to do something... mm," Daddy says, and steps back — 

Aramis reaches for him — 

And Daddy takes his hand and nips his fingers. 

Aramis grins and giggles. "Daddy!" 

"Shh, son. Step back off the desk and just bend over it... yes, just like that. Such a graceful little boy you are..." 

"Thank you, Daddy!" 

"You're welcome," Daddy says, and steps round behind Aramis again. 

Porthos — stares at Aramis's gorgeous mouth. 

"Big brother?" 

"Yeah. I... Daddy?" 

Daddy laughs like the bastard he is and spreads Aramis's arse — rubbing at his hole, no doubt. 

Aramis gasps and winces with *lust* — "Yes, please! Yes, *please*!" 

Porthos reaches out to stroke Aramis's mouth. "You like that, too, little precious?" 

"Yes! Yes! I feel — my Daddy's calluses are so *hard*." 

"That they are. And there's no oil to ease them. Do you like *that*?" 

"Please please — *nnh* — I want —"

"No," Daddy says, stopping them both in their tracks. "Aramis is going to be training hard in the next little while — harder than you, Porthos — and he cannot and *will* not take the kinds of fucks you do."

"*Right*, got it, Daddy." 

This wince on Aramis's face isn't as good — 

"It's all right, little precious, you just need to be in top shape for your conditioning." 

"I'm sorry I was not ready!" 

Daddy laughs softly. "Remember, little one: You're giving us the opportunity to *make* you ready." 

Aramis blinks — 

"In *every* way," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's mouth a little more. "We like that." 

"We like that a great, great deal," Daddy says — 

And Aramis *grunts* — 

Moans — 

Shivers and drops his head — 

Porthos lifts Aramis's head again — 

Aramis looks dazed and *starved* — 

"Daddy's working your sweet little hole good, precious?" 

"Yes — please — *please* —" 

"Daddy's making you need it?"

"I — I already —" 

"But do you need it *more*." 

Aramis *groans* and licks his lips, stretches to kiss Porthos's hand and wrist — 

"Oh, that's good, little precious. That's so —" Porthos growls. "Daddy..." 

"Yes, son...?" And Daddy's laughing evilly under his *voice*. "Did you need something?" 

Porthos laughs hard. 

"I need to get out of my *dripping* breeches and into that gorgeous *mouth*." 

"Hmm. It's just that I like listening to my boy talk..." 

"I will talk! I will — nuh — please — *I*," Aramis says, and groans again, hangs his *head* again — 

"What are you *doing* back there, Daddy?" 

"Hard circles, son. *You* prefer a more direct chafing, but our little beauty here..." 

"Yeah, I *see*. Is he getting all pink?" 

Daddy growls. "He certainly is. He's going to *ache* for my cock." 

"Yes — *yes*!" And Aramis lowers his head a little more. 

"Is that what you learned from your other old soldiers, little precious? Face down, arse up?" 

"I — I — I like — please, I like this *best*." 

"But it's not what you wanted last night..." 

"N-no... but — *this*." 

"It's better? Tell me how. Tell us *why*," Porthos says, and pushes his other hand into Aramis's hair — 

Tugs and *pulls* — 

"Mm — mn — *big brother* —" 

"Go on. You can do it, precious. Give us everything." 

Aramis grunts and *kisses* the desk — 

Porthos's prick *jerks* — "You make me *insane*, precious, come on, tell us, tell us now —" 

"I like to be — to be *down*. I like — oh, Daddy, your *fingers*!" 

"I won't *stop*, son. And neither will you." 

Aramis *whimpers*. "Yes — *yes* —" 

And Porthos *yanks* Aramis's head up so he can see his *eyes* —

They're so *wide* — "Please!" 

"Give it to us. We'll always keep it, little precious." 

"You — I —" 

"We'll always *cherish* it, son." 

"We'll keep it where we *live*. Why is this position *better*?" 

Aramis pants and moans and — goes loose, all over. 

"Oh —" 

"Good boy. Good *son*." 

"*Give* it to us and make me *madder* for you." 

Aramis moans more — "I must — be a good boy. I must offer myself. I must *give* myself. I must lower myself *down*, all the way *down*, so that my — my family can see that I will *always* be good for them — good and *obedient* —" 

Porthos groans — 

"Your family, son?" 

"Yes, Daddy —" 

"Or your owners?" 

Porthos blinks — 

And Aramis flushes nearly as dark as the beads of his *rosary*. He — 

"Aramis..." 

Daddy hums, and bends down to kiss Aramis at the base of his spine — 

And Aramis moans quietly, lowering his head again when Porthos eases his grip on his hair. 

"I thought so," Daddy says, and *looks* at him. "But there's nothing to say a man's — or a *boy's* — family can't be his owners, too." 

Porthos grunts and *blinks* — 

But. 

But Aramis is shivering, and clawing at Daddy's desk, and they'd *asked* him to give up everything, all of his bloody *secrets* — 

They'd *asked*, and he'd *done* it — 

And there's a responsibility to that. 

Porthos feels himself settle inside, feels himself gathering all the scrambled *pieces* — 

He'll need time to *really* put them together later, but for now...

Porthos cups the back of Aramis's neck and squeezes *hard*. 

Aramis *gasps* — 

"Little brother..." 

"My — my — big brother — I'm sorry —" 

"My little brother wants to give me a gift. Is that right?" 

Aramis takes a shuddering breath. 

"You already said you belonged to me... but this is a little different, isn't it?" 

"I — I —" 

"This is..." Porthos licks his lips. "You want to be my our property... and maybe something a little deeper than that. A little... smaller." 

Aramis pants and pants and — *shakes* — 

"Oh, little precious, it's all right," Porthos says, squeezing the back of Aramis's neck harder and giving him a little shake. 

Aramis makes a *low* sound — 

"You know you're making me harder, right?" 

"And me, as well," Daddy says, and sets the little pot of oil on the desk before cupping Aramis's hips. "You're making me *hungry*, son." 

"I keep asking for more!" 

"You keep *earning* it," Daddy says. 

"I —" 

"Shh," Porthos says, moving his hand to the back of Aramis's head and pushing it down himself — 

Aramis *shouts* — 

"This is what you want." 

"Please!" 

"This is what you *need*," Porthos says, and crushes Aramis's perfect face against the desk a little — 

"Oh — oh, *God*!" 

And Porthos knows that 'oh, God', knows it means Aramis is starting to lose it in *good* ways again — "Yeah, that's right, little precious. I don't *always* accept gifts when they're offered to me, but I'm snatching yours *right* up." 

Aramis shudders and — locks his hands behind his back — 

"Good boy. Good *son*," Daddy says, and slaps his arse — 

Aramis cries *out* — 

"I'm taking everything from you," Porthos says, and pushes Aramis's head down a little more — 

"I'm *yours*!" 

"Yeah, you are," Porthos says, and he's hot all over, his skin is tight, he's so *hard* — "*Daddy*..." 

"Soon, son," Daddy says, and slicks his fingers. "Especially since I *strongly* suspect our lovely little boy is still slick inside from last night." 

Aramis whimpers and obviously *tries* to lift his arse more —

And Daddy pushes it right back down. "Steady is the way, son. Steady is the *best* way." 

"Daddy — *yes*, Daddy —" 

"Shh," Daddy says, spreading Aramis wide with his dry hand and slipping *in* — 

"AHN —" 

"Two fingers?" 

"Oh, yes. I... mm. He's a bit raw..." 

"Sorry about that, Daddy." 

"It's *entirely* understandable, son. If he didn't have to train, I'd fuck him bow-legged —" 

Aramis grunts — 

And Daddy smiles down at him. "You'll get your chance at that, son. Not to worry." 

"Yes, Daddy! Thank you, Daddy!" 

And Daddy hums and looks *thoughtful* as he presumably works his fingers round in there — 

Aramis is panting and *flushed* — 

Porthos pets him and *wants* — "Well, Daddy? What's the verdict?" 

"Did you... mm. Did you use your own oil, son? He's *very* slick," Daddy says, and starts *fucking* Aramis with his fingers — 

Aramis cries out — 

Again — 

Again and *again* — 

Porthos licks his lips and grins. "Not a bit of it, Daddy. My little precious does a lot of fatal favours for Madame Angel — who caters to the *merchant* class — and gets full access to her supply of olive oil." 

Daddy snickers like a boy. "*Really*." 

"The Madame gives him a *bonus* for quick and *neat* kills..." And Porthos twines a lock of Aramis's hair around his fingers. 

Daddy *coughs* a laugh — "She — what. Oh, son. Oh, son, you're making me a very happy man," he says — 

And Aramis throws his head back and *yells* — 

"You're making it absolutely necessary that I make *you* happy..." 

"Please, please, you are!"

"Excellent," Daddy says — 

And Aramis yells *again* — 

And *grunts* when Porthos pushes his head back *down* — 

"Oh, that's perfect, little precious, that's *hot* —"

"Did our little lad have any thoughts about how to *make* a kill quick and neat?" 

Porthos licks his lips — "He certainly *did*, Daddy. He's been perfecting his knife-throws —"

Daddy *coughs* again — 

"— to limit the arterial spray, again —" 

"And, presumably, the blood-curdling screams —" 

"Those, too, Daddy —" 

Daddy snickers and does *something* with his hand — 

Aramis jerks his head up and *howls* — 

And howls — 

And *pants*, staring blankly forward and *shaking* — 

"About *that*, Daddy...?" 

"A third finger and an *immediate* crook, son. I can't help feeling inspired at this point." 

"Oh, yeah, I hear that. In fact, I *really* hear that. I hear that very *loudly* —" 

"Suffer, son —" 

Porthos splutters — 

"— for just a little while longer," Daddy says, leaning in and kissing Aramis's lower back again — 

Again — 

"Son..." 

"D-Daddy — I! I am listening!" And Aramis is blinking and trying to focus, trying to steady himself — 

Porthos *grips* him by the hair — 

"*Mm*!" 

And pushes him back down and down and — 

"Oh, yes! Oh, *yes*!" And he kisses the desk again, kisses it over and over — 

"There's our good boy —" 

"Our beautiful boy," Daddy says, and starts fucking Aramis *rhythmically* — 

"Ahn — ahn — *ahn* — *ahn* —" 

"I don't actually have a great *deal* of substance to say, little one," Daddy says, and keeps *fucking* Aramis — 

Porthos can't keep his free hand away from Aramis's *mouth* — 

Aramis is crying out for every *thrust* — 

"I think..." Daddy growls. "I think it's *important* for you to know that I didn't wake up thinking: 'I'm going to take on a new boy today.' I think it's important for you to *realize* that any aplomb or *steadiness* I'm showing, at this point, is simply the camouflage of *years*, son. It accrues. It *sticks*. You can't bloody take it *off* after a certain point." 

"Mn — I — *Daddy* —" 

"Shh," Porthos says, and gives up and pushes two fingers *into* that mouth — 

"*Mmph* —" And Aramis *sucks* — 

Slurps — 

*Moans* — 

*Sobs* around Porthos's fingers and licks like a little kitten and Porthos's prick is about to challenge Daddy to a *duel*, but — 

He can wait. 

He *will* wait — 

And Daddy growls again. "I am... stunned. I am breathless. My heart is pounding in my *chest*, son. There is real *fear* — and the vast majority of it revolves around how very many ways I can bollocks this *up* for myself and my Porthos. I can't do that. I *can't*. Because you are... too much. 

"Too strong. Too beautiful. Too brilliant. Too giving. Too *loving*. 

"Too mad in *precisely* the ways I've loved for *all* my adolescent and *nominally* adult life. I want to *bury* myself in you, son, but, more to the point, I want to lock you in my home — *chain* you there — so that I can always be sure where you are." 

Aramis *whimpers* — 

"*More* to the point, I want to do nothing of the kind, because I *need* to see you riding with Porthos, need to see you *destroying* your enemies and the enemies of the King and Crown with Porthos —" Treville snarls — "What I wouldn't give to be a young *man* again!"

"Daddy —" 

"Shh, Porthos, I *know*," Daddy says, and his eyes are *blazing* as he fucks Aramis with his fingers. "But the chance, the *dream* of riding beside you, you and a boy like Aramis..." 

"Oh — fuck, Daddy —"

"*Yes* —" 

"And we could — fuck, long nights by the fire —" 

"And we would tie the horses down —" 

"And then tie *Aramis* down —" 

"Down and warm in our *bedrolls*," Daddy says, and that *must* be a crook — 

Aramis *screams* — 

Shakes and clearly *tries* to quiet himself — 

To make himself calm? 

"No, son, don't be quiet. Don't be — don't *ever* be well-*behaved*," Daddy says, and fucks Aramis *hard* — 

Aramis shouts and drops his arms and claws at the desk again — 

Grinds his *face* against it — 

Porthos can't *help* imagining that against his *crotch* — 

He's *aching* — 

And that — 

That has to be shared.

"I *need* you, little precious," Porthos says, pressing down on his tongue — 

Aramis groans loudly and *messily* — 

"Just like that — fuck, just like *that* —" 

Aramis groans more and rocks back and forth between Daddy's fingers and Porthos's, takes them both like — 

"Oh, little precious, is that how you want to take our pricks?" 

And Aramis rocks harder, *faster* — 

Daddy *grunts* — 

"*Fuck*, little precious, that's perfect, that's — I want Daddy to lock you up, too. I want to ride back home knowing you'll always be there, no matter what. I want to chain you to our *bed*, and when I come home after a hard mission, and my mind's all messed-up, I want to hold you down and *rail* you for *hours* —" 

Aramis *groans* — 

*Shakes* — 

Whimpers and groans more as he scratches at the desk and rocks and just — 

"You like that fantasy, little precious?" 

Aramis nods — 

"I like it, too. I like the idea of having you whenever I *want* — and you're saying I *can*, aren't you." 

Aramis nods *more* — 

"You're saying *we* can, that we — oh, precious, precious, I'd *never* take your *weapons* away — I'd never — you bloody *have* to ride with me, and I'd *never* take *that* away from you —" 

"Too *right*, you wouldn't," Daddy growls — 

And Porthos *pants* a laugh — "You see? I'm not allowed to take that away from you. Daddy *says*. I *always* listen to my Daddy," Porthos says, tugging his slick fingers free and cupping Aramis's beautiful face, petting his mussed beard — "You're so bloody *gorgeous* —" 

"Perfect. My sons are *perfect* —" 

"*Fuck*," Porthos says. "I'm so bloody *hard*, I can't — you've given me all these new *fantasies*, Aramis. You've made me think of things I *haven't* thought of in — so long —" 

"Your — your little sister?" 

And Daddy *looks* at him, because he knows exactly how often Porthos *doesn't* talk about Flea — but it's an approving look. 

"Yeah. Yeah, exactly. We played around with those fantasies sometimes — not too seriously —" 

Aramis moans — 

Moans *loudly*, and that's *surprising* — and then Porthos realizes that Daddy is pulling *out* — 

Oh — fuck — "Daddy —" 

"Give me *just* a moment, boys. Keep *talking*." 

Yeah, yeah, he can do that — 

He can lift Aramis's head again — 

Look into his eyes and just — "I want everything with you."

"My Porthos can have anything with me he *wishes*," Aramis says, and his eyes are wide and full and *sincere*, just as if some part of him wouldn't *die* inside if they chained him up instead of letting him *fly*. 

"The things I want the most are the things that make *all* of us happy — not just hot," Porthos says. 

And that makes Aramis look a little *panicked* — which is something Porthos understands, too, or thinks he does. 

"That doesn't mean we can't have fantasies, and play a *lot* with those fantasies. That doesn't mean we can't have chains on the *bed*. But. There'll be a key. All right, little precious?" 

Aramis swallows and shivers. "And. My Porthos wants this thing?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "Yeah. I do." 

"More than there *not* being a key?" 

"Much more. See, for one, if there's a key? You get to be with us day and night — not just when we come home." 

Aramis moans — 

And then there's the *unmistakable* sound of Daddy slicking his big prick. 

Porthos leans in and kisses Aramis's forehead. "You're about to lose the ability to make words, little precious." 

"I — oh..." 

Daddy laughs hard. "You don't know that, son. He could be *deeply* articulate with a cock up his arse." 

"Not yours, Daddy." 

"Are you trying to butter me up so I'll let you in Aramis's mouth faster?" 

"... would it work?" 

"No," Daddy says, and laughs more — 

"You are such an *arsehole* —" 

"That I am, son," he says, and spreads Aramis — "As an aside, little one, *not* fucking you *violently* is going to be hard —" 

"You *must* —" 

"Shh. *You* must be in proper shape to *train*," Daddy says, and starts pushing in — 

"Oh —" 

And in — 

"Oh, *yes*!" 

"Oh, son, your arse is — mm. *Mm*," Daddy says, and does that little hip-swivel that's nothing like Aramis's but — 

"Oh, God! *God*!" 

"As I was saying. Not fucking you violently is going to be something of a hardship, being as how you're making me absolutely *insane* — can you feel how hard I am for you, son?" 

"Yes! *Yes*! So big, so hard, so *hot* —" 

"Can you feel me *flex* for you?" 

"Oh, God, *yes*!" 

"Good boy," Daddy says, and slaps Aramis's hips — 

"Oh —" 

Swivels his *own* hips again — 

"*Unh* —" 

"It's going to be so *much* of a hardship," Daddy says, pulling out — 

"*Please*!" 

"— that I'm probably not going to manage it," he says, and *laughs* as he shoves in — 

And then he and Aramis groan together — 

Aramis shakes and pushes up on his *toes* — 

Daddy *yanks* him back down — 

"*AHN* —" 

And Porthos growls, yanking on his own beard — 

He wants. 

He *wants* — "*Daddy* —" 

"Soon, son. *Soon*. Just let me *fuck*," he says, and *rams* in — 

Aramis *screams* — 

"— a little more beautiful music out of our boy," he says and yanks Aramis back down *again* — 

"Oh — *yes* —" 

"You love it, don't you, precious..." 

"Yes! *YES* — oh, fuck, oh, *fuck* — *AHN* —" 

"You want him to do you *just* that hard —" 

"*Harder*!" 

"Oh — shit —" And Daddy laughs and grips Aramis by the hair, *yanking* his head back — 

"*Oh* —" 

Pulling him into a *bow* — 

"Daddy! Oh, Daddy —" 

"This is where you take it, son," Daddy says, and — 

Rides him. 

Just — *rides* him. 

Aramis makes *choked* noises, at first — he can't seem to catch his breath — 

His eyes are *rolling* — 

He's clawing at the *desk* again — 

And then Daddy swivels his hips, changes his angle, and starts to sodding *pound* Aramis — 

"Yes! Yes — oh, God, yes! Please! *YES*! *YES*!" 

"Now, son. *Now* stop his mouth up *tight*." 

"Oh — fuck —" But Porthos is already climbing up on Treville's great *ship* of a desk, already opening his trousers, his breeches — 

Shoving them down and out of the way — 

Shoving one hand into Aramis's hair — 

Twining it with Daddy's strong one, scarred one, perfect one, and Daddy's pushing Aramis's head down — 

Aramis is *yelling* — 

*Grunting* — 

And then his lips touch the head of Porthos's prick, and he moans, low and desperate and *needy* — 

Tries to *lunge* against the grip they have on him — 

Porthos pulls him on fast, *hard* — 

They make him *take* — 

He swallows Porthos *down* — 

And now all his groans are quiet, relatively quiet, trapped in his *chest*, vibrating his throat around Porthos's prick and Porthos can't — 

He's already pumping up, in, fucking that sweet throat, that perfect — 

And he can *feel* the rhythm of Daddy's thrusts, feel how he's *slamming* into Aramis, working him, panting and growling as he, fuck, *takes* him — 

*Claims* him — 

And Porthos can't not remember the first time Daddy had had him, that inn, that cold night, and he'd been drunk as hell, but that had just made everything brighter, wilder, *more*. 

It had made every last *one* of Daddy's touches *sing* in him, made Daddy feel like a shout in a world of whispers, made Daddy drown everyone else *out* — 

And Porthos can't help but wonder if it's like that for Aramis, if he feels that driven, that taken, that taken *over* — 

If he wants more, if he'll *beg* for more the way Porthos had — 

They'll give it to him —

They'll give it to him all bloody day and *night* — 

They'll *work* him between them just like — 

Oh, fuck, just like *this*, and Porthos has one hand in Aramis's hair and the other on his shoulder — 

And Daddy has one hand in Aramis's hair and the other on his hip — 

And they're *moving* him — 

Pushing and *pulling* him — 

*Making* him ride their pricks even more than he already was, even faster, even — 

Fuck, even *harder* — 

The groans *hitch* in Aramis's chest — 

He *shakes* — 

He's flushed so *red* — 

"That's — nnh. That's it, son. You can take it," Daddy says, low and rumbling and so *solid* — 

And Aramis flushes even darker and goes *loose*, opens right up and gives himself *over* — 

"Oh, Daddy — fuck — fuck, you're too bloody *good* at this —"

"Someone in this room has — has given me a *fair* amount of *practice*," Daddy says, and keeps *giving* it to Aramis, keeps fucking him so hard, so *hard* — 

Porthos isn't fucking him any more *gently* — 

Daddy makes Porthos *grind* Aramis down onto his cock — 

And then Daddy *gasps* and loses his rhythm for a long moment — 

Another — 

He growls *low* — "Oh, son, the way our boy is *clenching*…"

Porthos grunts and *flexes* — "He — he'll spend soon —" 

"*Yes*. Give him —" 

But Porthos is already tugging Aramis up off his prick with Daddy — not far. Just enough to let him pant, let him — "Come on, little precious, come on and *gulp* some air —" 

Aramis moans something incoherent and bloody *fervent* and does just that, over and over until Porthos is shivering with it — 

Until Daddy is growling and *clutching* at him — 

Until they're both too needy not to force him back down, too hungry not to start fucking him again, fucking him *hard*, making him gulp other things and groan for Daddy's fat prick — 

Making him *take*, and Daddy's started panting out growls with every *vicious* thrust — 

And Porthos has started *grinding* into Aramis's throat — 

And Aramis is *beating* at the desk even as they work him, work him so *hard* — 

He can take it — 

He can take *anything* — 

And a part of Porthos is only out in the woods with him, halfway to some mission or halfway back, staking him out, tethering him like a horse and riding him that way — 

And maybe Daddy would be with them somehow, maybe — 

Maybe he'd be telling Porthos *exactly* what to do and how to *do* it — 

And maybe Olivier would finally be with them, too, watching and —

Maybe Olivier would be waiting his *turn*, and Porthos isn't going to bloody — 

And Aramis *screams* around Porthos's prick — 

Porthos chops it *up* —

Porthos — 

Porthos *brutalizes* the scream with his *prick*, but Aramis is twisting, bucking as much as they're *letting* him — 

Aramis is spending *hard*, wetting down the desk and — 

Fuck — 

"Fuck, Daddy, milk him, milk his bollocks for me, *please* —" 

"With — with *great* pleasure," Daddy says, grunting as he releases Aramis's hair and reaches between — 

Aramis *howls* around Porthos's prick — 

"*Fuck*," Daddy says — 

"Did he —" 

"He's — he's milking *me*," Daddy says, laughing and growling and *riding* Aramis, riding him hard, *hard*, and Porthos has to give his little precious just that much, has to be good, has to be — 

Oh, Aramis is *slumping* between them, lashes fluttering, mouth *slack* for long moments — 

So pretty — 

So *perfect* — 

Porthos *snarls* and fucks him hard, *hard*, grips him by the hair and holds him in place when he can't hold himself — 

And Daddy's got his hips — 

"We — we've *got* you, precious —" 

"We *won't* let go —" 

And Aramis gasps — 

*Gulps* — 

Sucks *hard* — 

And *Daddy* gasps — 

Porthos *groans* —

They *both* lose the rhythm for a moment — 

"Good *boy*," Daddy says, and starts right up again, swivels and changes angle and *pounds* their boy — 

Aramis's eyes roll up — 

And Porthos kneels up, *cups* Aramis's face, and fucks *down* into his throat as much as possible. Just — 

Just like last night, just like — 

But last night Aramis wasn't like this. Last night Aramis wasn't *theirs* like this — 

Porthos had *pushed* for Aramis to be a part of his relationship with Daddy, but he hadn't *known* — 

He'd had no *idea* — 

Fuck — 

And what he knows now just makes him want to gather Aramis close and hold him for years, fuck him blind, teach him everything he knows and watch him use it to murder bloody *legions* of bullies. 

He — 

"I *need* you!"

Aramis seizes between them, *obviously* tries to suck harder — 

"I need you — don't you — don't you try to *leave* us!" 

And Aramis shakes his head as much as Porthos is *allowing*, which isn't much — 

Aramis is *dark* from lack of air — 

Aramis opens his *eyes* —

And he's happy, so happy and wondering and — 

Fuck, oh, fuck, ready for *anything* — 

Porthos groans *helplessly* — 

Shakes and *shoves* in, *in* — 

He has to — 

He *needs* — 

"Give — squeeze me — come on —" 

And Aramis's hand is right there, right bloody *there*, cupping and petting his bollocks for a moment before he squeezes just as *beautifully* hard as he had last night, just as viciously, just as *perfectly*, and Porthos is sodding *reaming* his *mouth* — 

He can't stop — 

He can't — 

And then Aramis starts *pumping* him — 

Working him so — 

Porthos pulls Aramis's hair and *grips* his face and he just — 

Lets go — 

Lets himself *go*, and it feels perfect, so *perfect* as he *ruts*, and he's looking down into Aramis's beautiful face, his perfect fucking beautiful face — 

And he hears himself *shout* — 

And then he can't hear or bloody see *anything* but the white *fire* in his vision, so hot, so bright, so — 

So *everything* as he shudders and spurts and spurts and *spurts* all over the inside of Aramis's throat and mouth — 

He's still *rutting* — 

It's so *right* — 

And then his hearing comes back with a *flood* of nasty-hot noises — all the slurps and groans and gulps that Aramis is making around him, all the wet-slapping *grunting* from Daddy's end — 

Porthos moans *helplessly* and spurts *more* — 

Aramis hums and *sucks* — 

Porthos *spasms* — he doesn't have any more. He doesn't have a *drop*. 

And he needs — 

He pulls out — 

"Oh — no, no, big brother —" 

"Need to hear your sounds for Daddy," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's incredibly *obvious* mouth with his fingertips — 

And Aramis looks him *right* in the eye and lets his mouth fall open — 

And *keeps* it open as he *grunts*, over and over and *over* again for Daddy's *viciously* hard thrusts. Just — 

Fuck. 

"Just like that, precious?" 

Aramis bites his lip and *misses* a grunt — 

Daddy growls and slams in *harder* — 

And Aramis *whimpers*, high and sweet and so *quiet* — 

"Fuck..." 

"*Agreed*," Daddy says, gripping the back of Aramis's neck and *shoving* him down — 

"*Ohn* —" 

And having him. 

Just — right there. 

Porthos licks his lips and steps down so he can get a better viewing angle — yeah, Daddy is definitely forcing Aramis up onto his toes with *every* thrust. 

And growling. 

And making Aramis *drool*. 

Well. 

That desk is used to it. 

Porthos moves up next to Daddy, close enough to *taste* his sweat. "You know..." 

"Son. *Son*." 

Porthos licks his lips, deliberately catching Daddy's ear with his tongue — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"You know, Daddy... it's occurred to me that Aramis might need some Musketeer woodcraft training..." 

"I. I want — I *want* —" 

"No one knows more than you, Daddy..." 

Daddy *snarls* — 

"I'll bring the rope," Porthos says, grinning and stepping *back* — 

Daddy *covers* Aramis like the animal he bloody *is* — 

Gives Aramis the chance to gasp *once* before he wraps his arms round Aramis's chest and *grips* — 

"Oh, God!" 

Daddy *bites* — 

"Oh, *God* —" 

And his rutting thrusts are bloody inspiring. Fast and hard and rough and — 

And, all right, Aramis sounds a bit like he's being *beaten* — by at least two people — but he looks so happy about it that Porthos can't remotely bring himself to quiet him down. 

It's possible they need Olivier just to have a responsible person in the family. 

Olivier is responsible, right?

Well, they'll find out. 

Daddy keeps going — 

"Yes — please — oh, yes!" 

Daddy bites *harder* — 

"HNH —" 

And then Daddy *stills*, squeezing Aramis *tighter* — 

"*God*!" 

And Daddy shudders hard on top of Aramis, grinding in and in and *in* as he *unmistakably* spends. 

Aramis slumps over and moans — and kisses his rosary and starts to pray. 

Porthos, who'd like to believe he's an old hand at this, doesn't say a *word*. 

Daddy, on the other hand, slowly — achingly slowly — lifts his head from Aramis's shoulder, *turns* his head, and *stares* at Porthos. 

"I did tell you, Daddy." 

Daddy grunts. "So you did." 

"And, let's be fair about this, you told *me* some." 

"I don't want to be fair, son," Daddy says, and kisses the back of Aramis's neck. 

Aramis shivers and keeps praying. 

"That's fair, Daddy. I mean, you not wanting to be fair." 

Daddy grunts and stands upright. "You know." 

"Yeah?" 

Daddy points to Aramis. "For the men, those are probably going to be the *most* disturbing noises coming out of this office." 

Porthos chokes a little. 

So does Aramis. 

But he doesn't actually *stop* praying.


	5. There's a power to stories, and to the artifacts of stories. They're part of how we build a family.

They hadn't been able to spend *all* day in Daddy's office — for one thing, the Captain of the King's Musketeers often has actual work to do, if only to allow the King's Musketeers themselves to continue being able to fuck about as much as they do, and for another, Aramis was *extremely* eager to show that he could still train after taking a pounding like that — 

Which, Porthos would've been, too — 

Porthos *had* been, when it was his turn — 

*Repeatedly* — 

Which is, in fact, why they had spent so much wonderful time and energy figuring out exactly how much Porthos's arse could take. 

So, really, Porthos had felt like he was doing his part by testing Aramis on a couple of the exercises which were hardest on *him* after the hardest fucks. 

The running? No trouble, at all, really. A few paces to catch his stride, and then Aramis had been off. 

The stretches *after* the running... well, those could use some work. They'll do it. 

The basic footwork for *military* fencing, as opposed to *salon* fencing... that could also use some work, though whether that has more to do with the pain and stiffness than with the unfamiliarity is a little beyond both of them by *this* point of the day. 

Aramis is panting and wincing and *soaked* with sweat, and *neither* of them smell as much like fucking as they do like *work*. 

Which is both impressive and a crying shame as far as Porthos is concerned. 

And — it's actually getting late. 

Most of the men are washing up or already *gone*. 

Porthos jerks his chin at Aramis. "Time." 

Aramis stops immediately and grins at him. "To fall down? I am most willing!" 

Porthos shakes his head and pulls on a frown for any passers-by. "Time to report to the *Captain*." 

Aramis blinks — and then lifts his chin in understanding as his eyes sparkle. "For my... further lessons." 

"*Precisely*. We'll make a man out of you, yet," Porthos says, adding just a touch of bitterness. 

Aramis shakes his head and moves close. "I see, I think, how you succeeded so well at cardsharping..." 

"Do you, now...? Heh. Come on." 

They make their way — as grimly as they can — up to Daddy's office. Porthos makes Aramis precede him on the stairs, so he can see how he's doing *that* way — not bad. 

Definitely less spring in his step than earlier this afternoon, but it's reasonable for him to be fatigued after being worked that hard. 

And, once they're on the walk — 

"What *possible* excuse could the two of you have for bothering me," Treville calls — he's not even trying to pull on the Captain. 

Does he already recognize Aramis's footsteps? "Love and affection, sir," Porthos calls, pitching his voice to carry a lot less far than Daddy's. 

"And a fair amount of it," Aramis says. 

Daddy snorts. "Get *in* here." 

They do just that — and Daddy flares his nostrils almost as soon as they're in. 

"You both smell fantastic." 

Aramis plucks at his drenched shirt. "I was thinking that I smelled more like a goat, but if this pleases my Daddy..."

Daddy laughs more. "Boys that smell too sweet also smell *too* young, little one. You know that." 

Aramis inhales sharply. "So I do," he says, and inclines his head. "My Daddy is wise." 

"Your Daddy spent the afternoon glaring at the hourglass. And at his woefully-clean desk," he says, standing and moving round in front of the desk in question. He's got something in his right fist.

"We did offer *not* to clean it," Porthos says, grinning and stretching the way Daddy likes — the way that sends his own goat-ish odors all the way around the *room*. 

Aramis looks a little dreamy for it, too, actually. 

"That was *very* kind of you. You're good, dutiful sons, and not at all shiftless layabouts," Daddy says, and shows his teeth. 

Porthos snickers — 

Aramis hums and moves closer to Daddy. Not as close as he *should*, but — "If my Daddy would like..." 

Daddy's eyes *shine*. "I think your Daddy *would*, son, but do go on." 

Aramis goes *loose*, just like that, giggling softly and moving closer — 

And then Daddy grabs his hip and *hauls* him close.

"Daddy —" 

"Tell me."

"Your Aramis would be more than willing to... perfume your desk for you again." 

Daddy growls. And looks at *him*. 

Porthos grins. "I'm *always* willing to engage in some perfuming, Daddy." 

Daddy laughs and turns to nuzzle Aramis's throat — 

"Oh —" 

He laps at the sweat — 

"Mm —" 

He *sucks* at the sweat — 

"Oh, *yes* —" 

And then he kisses Aramis's throat softly and pulls back. "Porthos? *Why* are you still all the way over there?" 

"Taking in the view, Daddy," Porthos says, and grins a little more. "Plus... you've got a little something in that hand that I daresay is *for* our little precious." 

Aramis inhales sharply and lifts his hand to touch Daddy's closed fist — 

To stroke over Daddy's knuckles — 

Daddy hums again. "That I do. But... I want you close. I want you — I need you both right here," Daddy says, and he's narrowing his eyes *that* way — the way that means that he's maybe a touch more emotional than he wants to admit to. 

Which says a lot of things about what's in that hand. 

Porthos nods and comes over, kissing Daddy's temple and sitting next to him on the desk. 

Daddy exhales with a shudder, then, and that — 

"Daddy?" 

"My boys," he says, and the smile on his face is painful as he opens his fist. It's *dark* leather cord — *old* leather that's seen a lot of use, and also it's *familiar* — with a key on it. "You'll have to keep your rooms for the sake of appearances for a little while, Aramis —" 

"Oh — *oh* —" 

"Shh," Daddy says, and brings Aramis's hand to the key. "It will *only* be for appearances. Once we can get it *done*, you'll have keys to every lock on the de Tréville properties. Just like Porthos. This is the beginning." 

Aramis swallows *hard* — and looks to him. "Did — did this happen so *quickly* for you?" 

Porthos laughs. "Hell, no. I made Daddy wait *much* longer." 

"On tenterhooks the entire time, thinking that Porthos would surely realize the old deviant was trying to swallow him whole, and run *away*..." 

"Trying to make it work with a woman who honestly wanted me to stay in the Court of *Miracles* —" Porthos shakes his head and *looks* at Aramis. "*You* won't make us wait. Will you." 

Aramis gasps a little — "N-no, big brother — no, Daddy..." 

And Daddy lifts the key — 

Offers it a little more *vigorously* — 

And, when Aramis closes his fingers around it, he says: "The thong is the last remaining piece of the *special* saddlebag Kitos, Reynard, and I always made sure to take with us when we were riding out together. Alcohol, cards, dice, pomade and oil... the necessities for young men of a certain stripe; you understand." 

Aramis blushes and nearly drops the key — 

And Porthos catches it. The thong is long enough to go around Aramis's neck twice. That... feels right. 

"You — you are giving this — no. You can't, you must give it to Porthos, if you give it to anyone —" 

"Daddy knows I don't really keep uh — *things*, Aramis. You grow up with a lot of heartbreak if you try to do that kind of thing in the Court." 

"But —" 

"You'll treasure it," Daddy says. "You'll keep it, and cherish it, and, when it can't be worn anymore, you'll put it away somewhere safe. If you lose it, you'll mourn it properly — like a connection to the lives of two beautiful men this world will never see again." 

"Yes — *yes*! I mean — of course, I will!" 

Daddy inclines his head. "Porthos is the same with the memories I've shared with him. My loves live inside him, walk and talk and fight and fuck and *breathe*..." And Daddy swallows and shudders, once, *hard*. 

Porthos wraps an arm round him and squeezes tight. "They always will, Daddy. *Always*." 

"My son. My *sons*," he says, and takes the thong from Porthos. "Let me put it on you, Aramis. Let me *see* it on you and know that you're ours."

Aramis moans and touches the key again, the leather — "And. You are certain? You are both certain?" 

Porthos grins. "I was certain of you while we were still riding last night." 

"Oh — big brother —" 

And Daddy squeezes Aramis's hip again. "When *you're* more certain, son, I'm going to ask you to let me adopt you —" 

"*Daddy* —" 

"To let me make you *wholly* mine in the eyes of the law —" 

"*Please*!" 

"To make you Porthos's *brother* in the eyes of the law, the way you are in every other way —" 

"In! In the eyes of *God*!" 

Daddy's expression quirks, but — "All right, son. I'll trust you on that. But I won't make you decide *that* right away —" 

"Please, please, Daddy, I am yours, make me yours in every *way*!" 

Daddy pants twice — 

Growls — 

"*Kneel*." 

Aramis *drops*, graceful and quick, looking up at both of them so eagerly, so *hungrily* — 

"You're so beautiful, little precious..." 

"Please — I am yours — I am *yours*!" 

"Yes, you are," Daddy says, standing up over Aramis — "Head back, son." 

"Yes, Daddy!" And Aramis obeys — 

And Daddy loops the thong over Aramis's throat twice, just like Porthos thought. It feels a little —

A little *powerful* — 

It feels *right* to see that key resting on Aramis's breastbone, to see him reaching up to touch it with wonder — 

His cheeks are so flushed — 

And Porthos has to stand, has to lift Aramis to his feet and into his arms — their arms. 

They have to kiss Aramis now, and nip his swollen lips, muss his perfect beard — 

Daddy whispers in his ear — "The two of you are all the legacy a man could need..." 

And Aramis and Porthos moan together, turn to kiss Daddy together — 

He holds them *tight* with his strong, lean arms — 

He holds them so *close* — 

Eventually, they'll make the ride back to the manor, if not to Daddy's posh little property not *too* far from the heart of the city — perfect for those late nights, and for making Daddy hacked-off about the money it costs just to have a name. 

Porthos can't wait to watch Aramis open the doors. 

"God —!" 

He knows Daddy can't wait, either. 

end. 

**Author's Note:**

> Aramis reminisces -- quite, quite cheerfully, and in some detail -- about early sexual experiences with adult males when *he* was eleven. Caveat lector.


End file.
